


The End

by N0V0C41NE



Series: The Beginning to... [1]
Category: Banana Bus Squad, Tom Clancy's Rainbow Six (Video Games)
Genre: Also giving each character their designated perk, Because he's the youngest irl, But hey they do get together, But whatever, Craig seems like a Mark R. "Mute" Chandar, Delirious is delirious for Ohm, Evan and Luke have a slow build, Gangsters, His guy that is, Hope is a Cutie, I have no idea who Tyler should be, M/M, Male Protagonist, Maybe Capitão, No one is actually dead, Sam is a Sweetheart, Slow Build, Slow Romance, The slow build and romance is in there somewhere, The tag shall be there, Their codenames, Tyler's just missing the guy, Using R6S character names, What Have I Done, You Have Been Warned, vengeance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-16
Updated: 2018-05-16
Packaged: 2018-10-15 00:50:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 21,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10547220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/N0V0C41NE/pseuds/N0V0C41NE
Summary: Many people.Many ends.This series actually started last year, but I have beta-d the chapters to the best of my abilities and so the update ensues! Good news, the second chapter is being typed as you are reading!





	1. Prologue : Revelation

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for trying out this story - it's a typical gang!au but all the kudos do make me happy!

**VI.XI.MMXVII**

 

Luke cocked his gun for the umpteenth time that night, pressing the stock against his shoulder as he zeroed in on his target. The bullets rattled in his ear, the soft hum of the frosty wind almost making him shiver—the red dot quivered for a slight moment before he pulled the trigger without a moment’s hesitation; a muffled sound was the only warning before a body collapsed onto the ice-cold pavement, ten storeys below him. The single bullet that was fired made something rise in Luke’s system—like a predator’s success in ridding a prey… it was  _that_ feeling of pride and egoism that he tried to placate.

 

Unscrewing the silencer off his gun, he moved quickly to pack his weapon, knowing if he had lingered too long, people will notice where the bullet came from, and ultimately finding him. Leaving no such trace behind, he hopped to his feet and started bolting down the stairs, slipping his gloves on as he slung the bag that held the gun over his shoulder. Men of his team appeared out of the shadows of the corners of the stairwell; he chuckled, thinking that it was pretty darn cute to see his subordinates trying their best to not get caught—of which he nearly did miss them.

 

But him being Luke, nothing really gets past him. His eyes watched like a hawk, noticing the men buzzing as they were waiting for his one command. He sucked in an unnoticeable breath then his commands spilt. “Clean up the area,” he said, tone made secure, “do  _not_ get caught.”

 

“Yes, sir.” Rung the voices in unison.

 

He continued aiming for the stairs, rushing down six flights before catching his breath, breathing heavily as he scanned his surroundings. No sign of a camera nor the sign of people’s voices. To his left, a door stood—no hesitation, he swung the door open with his gloved hand and left the stairwell to the open corridor.

 

There was a camera that lurked at the end of the hallway but to his amusement, there were dozens of people starting to leave the conference rooms; acting nowhere near suspicious, he let his leather jacket hang from his arm, revealing the three-piece suit he had as a cover. He looked the rich businessman he made himself to be. Only after a few steps, he eyed a familiar face and cracked a grin.

 

Thank the Heavens that he reached there on time; usually, he wouldn’t because fuck that, he loved to stay in a mission point for a tad bit longer to wipe out any others who might have seen his work. But for that million-dollar-face he fell in love with, he didn’t mind being early. “Hey, Ev.” He greeted, making sure to mask his voice with a tone the other knew—a signal being buried under a certain colour of happiness.

 

The tone made the other’s ear quirk albeit invisible to the naked eye, the Asian that stood shorter than Luke had spun on his heels, grasping his bag in one hand and waving the free one; the creases in his working shirt brought to life. “Yo,” he greeted, his lips matching the grin, “what are you doing here so early?” He asked, mimicking the tone Luke took on; he knew exactly what Luke was doing in the building, and was not fazed in the least. “Let me guess,” he paused with a gentle hum leaving his chords, ”trying to get me on a date—again?”

 

Causing a wolf’s whistle by few others in the corridor, Luke just laughed at both his chosen response and the audience’s reaction without hesitation, “well, you do owe me for coming up an hour late to a luxurious dinner I had planned,” he said, still masking his words under a titter, ”but no—that’s now why I’m here. I just wanted to make sure you’re fine.” The spark in his eye shone as he tilted his head down, still eying the Asian who still stood by the glass door. His words stood true as the watched the male in front try to hide the red tinge growing on his cheeks, watching the other coughing into his fist.

 

Once his throat was cleared—it already was before he re-cleared his throat—Evan recognised the look on his face and glanced over at the lifts behind Luke. His movement was quick; he moved to grab Luke by the upper arm and nearly dragged the man with him. In a nick of time, they slid through the closing gap between the doors and squeezed through the crowd to have themselves stuck to the back of their chosen lift.

 

Lift music sang, and the soft breaths of the others overwhelming the silence for about ten seconds prior to the two pouring themselves out of the lift and out of the building. Evan ran ahead, face pulled into a seriousness Luke found utterly sexy as he ducked into an alley about three blocks away from where Luke had fired that one silver bullet.

 

The alley he led the other into was dark and cold; the alley bore no human or animal. Empty as space, Evan took the liberty to open the hatch by the end of the alley and made Luke jump in first, then did he follow. Their feet thundered against battered pipes as they landed and made a staccato harmony as they ran under the city, masks pulled from their pockets and face then covered to block the smoke building by their sides.

 

Evan’s mask took on a brown owl’s while Luke’s took on a red demon with one of its eyes being stitched to a close.

 

They ran for minutes, and there was no such thing as a stop for a breather in their minds.

 

Far from where they jumped into the underground passage laid a single door, 12 inches thick of titanium that shone under the single ray of light. A peephole laid eye level to Luke and he peeled the mask off, slowly edging closer to find himself facing not an eye-scanner, but a pair of light brown eyes, “open up—it’s Vanoss and Cartoonz.” He said, letting his voice rumble down the dark, and dank hall of the passage.

 

The door swung open slowly due to its weight but that didn’t stop the two from bolting into another dark area; their eyes already perfected in the dark, they didn’t fail to miss the countless of shadows enveloping them—the lights flashed on and what came into view was some sort of debriefing area. Filled with blue lights, computers laid all around and a single interactive table stayed put right in the centre. To their right led a door to the training area, and to their left was the room which led to another corridor with at least another four doors that extended to other areas of the underground area.

 

The man with light brown eyes gave Luke his infamous side-eye as the latter smirked, knowing that the best of the best had returned from their job. The unnamed man moved to the side to let the pair through.

 

The door shut closed with a soft thud despite its weight and size prior to a movement out of the corner to the pair’s two o’clock; there was a man with a classic hockey mask adorned three red irregular triangles hanging around his neck who had stepped out of the shadow he was basking himself within. Smirk cocked and fingers fiddling with a bullet, he chuckled softly and shook his head, “it’s another job well done, Luke,” he hummed, codename slipping through pearly whites.

 

Luke nodded once, the smirk on his lips matching his Boss’.

 

The man who revealed himself was known as Delirious, or better known within their ranks as Jonathan. He stood slightly taller than Luke, and far fitter than the latter was. The lights in his eyes were also far brighter than Luke’s, putting the Boss in an advantage. Ebony hair tousled from what Luke guessed to be a fight prior to him standing there. But what really caught Luke’s eye was that his left arm was wrapped in a bandage—maybe a bullet had grazed his skin since the Boss could still move his limb. His blue eyes were blinding if not flirtatious—but that man was not his, he belonged to another.

 

“Did they clean up?” His Boss asked; voice levelled.

 

“We can only guess until we get those cameras up and running again,” Evan perked from beside Luke, shrugging a shoulder loosely, “but sadly, I’m not the camera expert. Anyway, Luke’s bullet was heavy enough to stay lodged in the head, and not create another opening at the back of the skull for blood to escape. It should be a fairly easy clean-up for the boys.”

 

Jonathan cocked a brow, eyes glancing towards Luke before knowing better to just drop the topic. He was unaware that Cartoonz had patched up another bullet type before the actual given due date. But then again, the guy did surprise Jonathan more times he could even count.

 

Now, this Boss, Jonathan/Delirious was the man who unconsciously made the others place him as their leader was because of his expertise in a number of weapons and his ability to devise too fucking complicated strategies in ways no other could in a mere half hour—plus, maybe the main reason for his top ass position was for his laugh; it was too insane to even be called sane. On the weapon façade, his close combat and ranged expertise showed that his hands knew how to handle each weapon given and he knew just how much of an advantage or disadvantage the weapon would give when in a fight. But, he did prefer a rapid-fire type; he tried to avoid close combat because he didn’t really like getting his hands dirty unlike a few others in his gang. There was nothing much known about Jonathan, but both Evan and Luke didn’t mind since their Boss was their Boss.

 

The other member was Evan or known as Vanoss. Half Korean, half Chinese—not really an expert in the latter language but was trying to master it since Korean was now as smooth as his English. Now, this one… no one really imagined it from a man his build (the guy was top-gunned, but his height was slightly shorter than Luke), but he preferred working behind the scenes. When needed, however, he could pack a punch when out on the field. Unlike Luke, he didn’t choose the sniper as his weapon but chose the RP-46 because he was the type of person who was inclined to defending and that was what he meant by ‘behind the scenes’.

 

And what was the name given to the gun that was mounted on horses in the World War? Tachanka? Yeah, that sounded about right.

 

Evan was named that after nearly tearing the training room down with just his gun. Another thing was that when he was out on the field, he liked to get in close to his prey, so a silenced nine-millimetre handgun was enough… and maybe a pair of brass knuckles. Because of this, Evan is known to be able to move quicker than Luke though his reaction on par with the latter.

 

Now, onto Luke—code name, Cartoonz, and star of the show—was in an underground operation along with Evan and Jonathan, wiping the city of those on the Blacklist, though themselves were labelled as the bad ones. He was what the boys called the right-hand man of the whole operation, but really thought he wasn’t and believed it was Evan… or possibly someone else. He was the one expert in using the sniper (any sniper, for that matter). It was classified as his favourite weapon due to its penetration strength and accuracy; being an expert in artillery, he was known to have a shield on his gun as really a decoration despite it being bulletproof. What was also known about him was that he was famous for designing and making custom bullets for the team.

 

Being a part of the group for years, Luke had been lodged in enemy minds as the insane and nowhere near human. Every shot he fired met its mark, and every bullet released could never be traced back to the hideout… like as if he knew very well on how to cover his own tracks. But, when one looked very closely, his aim had been lacking due to a wound in his right shoulder; it was his mistake for that to happen. Evan had been guarding the original base with the RP-46 in hand, and Luke ran into his line of fire, causing the bullet to lodge into his shoulder. The positioning of the bullet severed what Luke couldn’t remember correctly but knew that it was enough to shake his aim.

 

Unknown to the minors (meaning the subordinates, of course), Luke and Evan had a… small— _large_ —issue amongst them. They were in a relationship, and so was Jonathan. They knew that it was  _suicide_ for such a thing, but they went for it anyways. But how could it be avoided when they had been in the group for nearly 15 years now? It was  _near impossible_. A child was already 17, and another being 12—this group of insanity was too much for such a small setback like relationships get in their way. Luke and Evan were married, tied the knot for about five years.

 

Coughing the roughness out of his throat (how many times must he clear his throat that day?), the Asian spoke up, “speaking of the boys…” he paused, voice rising from the silence, “you heard about them, Boss?”

 

Now, this got Jonathan’s eyebrow cocking once more. “What? What am I supposed to have heard?”

 

Now, that wasn’t good.

 

The Boss not hearing what the Hell was going around in his own city was deadly enough to wreck their whole system. Withholding the panic, Luke sighed to mask it, but didn’t bother keeping back the growl escaping when he spoke, “the boys have been getting these… threats of their families being killed off in the most disgusting ways but will be placated if they turn their backs to us.” He paused, “nothing has been done so—” the look of relief was there for a split second until Luke opened his mouth again, “—yet, but we can’t just sit around with these threats erupting.” Another pause and his eyes flickered to meet Jonathan’s, “do you think _he’s_ got to do with it?”

 

“Judging by the way in which these threats are coming across, yes, we can also say much.” Jonathan sighed, rubbing at his temple as a headache started to kick in, “I am actually not that fucking surprised about it— _he_ has this way with words that beat me.”

 

Evan didn’t say anything, really. If he said more, then chances were  _more_ than happen under his watch, and it isn’t really all that nice to find out that their gang was slowly depleting in numbers at a time like that. He inhaled slightly before changing the subject, “to just save ourselves from this moment, has any of you seen Ryan? I need to talk to him about something.”

 

The man in question was Ohmwrecker, or Ryan—as they knew. Being the man with the same abilities as Luke (minus bullet-creating) he was the owner of the .50 BMG sniper. Beast in appearance, the bullets penetrate  _inches_  of  _steel_. Ryan was the man of precision, only focused on details. He was also known as the gang’s ‘Doc’ (as some of the boys would call him by). Being able to find the root of poison, or the how much one can survive with only small specks of blood, and even how long one can last with different  _types_ of wounds. However, the only downside for Ryan was that he was known to have tunnel vision.

 

But the Boss didn’t mind that at all.

 

Not really.

 

He was used to it.

 

Jonathan, being by Ryan’s side for so many years—almost 15 years now, he knew his weaknesses and he knew his strengths and the other knew his own. And again, little was known about the male, but the underground group knew that Ryan was Jonathan’s prized possession. And no—Ryan was  _not_  a plaything, he was  _his._

Jonathan would always put him first before himself, taking care of him whenever he was sick; it was ever on the brink of death, or even perfectly fine—Jon would do anything for him. The owner of sea-green eyes and a face too perfect to be human’s, Luke knew how Jonathan felt—having a crush on the guy for a while, but after knowing he had a bond with the Boss… well, let’s just say that Luke wanted to avoid any deaths.

 

Back onto the track,  _this_  was the man Luke believed was the Boss’, right-hand man.

 

And he was.

 

“What do you mean?” Luke asked after turning to face Evan, “hasn’t he reported anything to you?” His eyes went wide when the other shook his head, causing Jonathan to stare at him as well. “That… that sounds too wrong. Usually, he would call or text you, or something. Where did you send him?” Luke moved his sight towards Jonathan, who shook his head.

 

“I didn’t send him anywhere,” the owner of sea-blue eyes started to say, “I told him to stay home and take care of the kids—don’t worry. He texted me some time ago, he should be asleep by now. That fucker would get it from me if I come to find out that he isn’t.”

 

Luke stared at Jonathan long and hard (and blankly) before glancing at the clock.

 

**23:54**

“It’s nearing midnight, Del,” Luke said as a matter-of-fact, “you might as well check on him now. You never know when he might have his mood swings.”

 

Jonathan sighed, pulling up the mask so it settled to cover the whole of his face—he couldn’t expose himself, even during the night. “You’re right, man.” He said as he eyed his surroundings to make sure their subordinates weren't around to listen in—but then again, the men he hired respected them so very highly; once the coast was clear, Jonathan continued, “I swear, the kids are growing onto his manly self and he’s becoming more and more the woman in this awful relationship.”

 

A pause, “and another thing for you both, you should be too careful—he might bite your heads off your neck even by a single wrong syllable.” He heard Luke cackle at his statement which had caused Evan to choke out his own and Jonathan to join because the cackle was too awfully funny to not laugh about. The laughing went on for about a few more seconds before Luke started nodding once at the male, allowing the Boss to slide through the gap between himself and Evan.

 

“Not really on planning on losing my head.” Luke said, rubbing his hand across the neck, “I love it where it is.”

 

“Of course, you do.” Jonathan chuckled before slipping his mask onto his face (he actually didn’t need to, but it was a habit), bidding the two lovers a soft ‘bye’ and escaping the area. And as he walked, he fiddled with the edges of his mask; blue eyes swimming with a worry that was escalating with every step he took… it really  _was_  odd, Jonathan did realise. Ryan’s ‘must bother teammates’ schedule was usually at around the time of midnight, knowing at least one or two of them are out on a mission—he was absolutely stubborn, too.

 

He wouldn’t listen to Jonathan’s begs for him to retire early. Ryan’s schedule was a deadly thing to do, but they didn’t mind. It made the mission harder than difficult which made their blood yearn for so much more. Snapping his thoughts in half, Jonathan pulled out his phone glanced at his screen: nothing appeared—no call, and not even a text. The last message was sent at around 2100 hours, and when Ryan was trying to coax their daughter into sleeping. It was a cute text, Jonathan opted to say about it—well, cute enough. Maybe Ryan  _had_  gone to sleep… but.

 

 **Sent**  
**From - Ryan**  
**@ 21:23:57**  
_I have never actually been this fucking tired before._ _  
_I’m too old for this kind of shit.  
__ _Remind me why you put me as the wife in this relationship._

**Sent**  
**To - Ryan**  
**@ 21:30:54**  
_Sorry, had a meeting._  
_You should probably sleep, Princess._  
_Sam’s old enough to take care of ya._ _  
_And I don’t recall you being old.  
__ _And I don’t recall you whining this much—you love being the wife._

 

 **Sent**  
**From - Ryan**  
**@ 21:31:45**  
_It’s fine, I was busy folding the laundry, anyway! :)_  
_We’re old, Jon. We are so very old._  
_And, I guess I do really need to go to bed._ _  
_But I’m too lazy to move from the couch!  
__ _SINCE WHEN DID I SAY SUCH A THING._

**Sent**  
**To - Ryan** **  
**@ 21:32:43**  
** _Oo~h, house ~~wife~~_ husband material.  
_As I last recalled, we are only 30._  
_Good job on realising your needs!_  
_Aren’t we all lazy asses?_ _  
_xD WELL, YOU DIDN’T SAY ANYTHING.  
__ _BUT YOU SAID YOU COULD COOK?_

**Sent**  
**From - Ryan**  
**@ 21:37:58**  
_Sorry, Jon… was a bit tied up._  
_Sam and I had the damned talk again._ _  
_Did you even say yes to training him?  
__ _EXCUSE ME. ALL I SAID WAS THAT.  
_ _NOT ACTUALLY TAKING OVER THIS ROLE.  
_ _FUCK._

 

 **Sent**  
**To - Ryan**  
**@ 21:38:30**  
_I am going to_  
 _Kick his ass_ _  
_When I get back home.__  
 _And I’m gonna take the opportunity to remind you why you’re my wife._  
 _And yes, that means taking that ass._  
 _I mean. Well.  
_ _Not because I’m needy.  
_ _I just want to...?  
_ _I should probably just not text this shit anymore ; ;_

 

The edging tone of an ‘if’ was shoved to the back of his head but Jonathan shoved that gnawing sense to the back of his head and the Boss chuckled to himself; he peeled himself into the light, not removing his mask… only until the images of people came into his view. Before any person could recognise his mask, he ducked into a shadow, peeled his mask off and shoved it into his bag, then he continued his journey back home.

 

Those masks weren’t necessary, but in some sense, the group just wanted something to adorn their faces—not those grey-looking cheap masks, but something that could highlight them.

 

Hustling and bustling with people made the street come to life, but Jonathan kept his eyes open for any potential ambushes—though, he found none. It was midnight, and those on their enemy team were only active in the morning… starting at around three. But it was still... weird. As if they didn’t have anything else to do—they always _had_ something to do.

 

He noticed he was only a block away from home and Jonathan pushed himself into a run—then that breeze faded into a sprint because something gave a loud pang in his chest, something in him telling him that he needed to rush home.

 

Damn it, he should have used the damned car (and again, Ryan told him to).

 

Breathing turned into panting, the blues in his eyes gleaming brighter than bright as he saw his apartment coming into view: 22-storeys, the apartment was a monster. Each room costing thousands for mere rent, Jonathan trusted the building since it was Evan’s own, the Owl being able to steal from others was amazing until today.

 

The lights started fizzing as he bolted, the feeling in his chest starting to hurt, and his bandaged arm started to itch—he made sure he didn’t spend more than ten minutes to reach his targeted area. He bounded through the doors and all the way to the stairs—not bothering to greet those working in the lobby, and then deciding to not trust the lift would take him to the 11th floor in time.

 

_Did you just take the stairs to get up here?_

 

 _Yes, I did._ A single snort.  _Do you have_ _a problem with that, sugar?_

A loud groan.  _You_ ** _do_** _realise that we live on the 11 th_ _floor, Jon!_

_Uh. Of course, I_ ** _bought_** _our apartment, Ry._ A light chuckle but full of amusement.  _Come on now, I know you fucking missed me. Say i~t._

_Delirious!_

 

Reaching said floor, Jonathan slammed himself out of the stairwell and into the corridor; his footsteps ricocheting. There. At his three o’clock. At the end of the hall. His place. His home. He ran, and ran, and ran. Pulling out his key card, his eyes landed on the door—

 

The door was fucking  _ajar_.

 

 _Can you_ please _remember to bloody lock the door, Jon?_

_Wha~t._ A pout—a whine with it. _I was too tired to even move—show me mercy!_

The sound of knuckles cracking.  _I will only show you mercy when you actually lock the damned door!_

_Ryan! Please. MERCY._

 

Without a moment’s breath, he pulled out his silenced handgun and entered his room with sound that failed to exist. Taking steps as light as a feather, blue eyes scanned around. Documents scattered, weapons pulled apart, and glass shattered. Someone… or some  _people_ entered through the window. “Hope!” He screamed, closing the door behind him as he kept his nine-millimetre gun locked, “Sam!”

 

 _Please. Please. Please._ Jonathan thought as he eyed the camera in the corner to his five-o’clock.  _Say something. Anyone._ He spun back around and looked around again, his heart pounding as he did so.  _Please, let me know that you are safe._

 

After what had seemed hour, he still had no response from either his daughter, his son or Ry—

 

“ _Let me fucking behead you, bitch!”_

 

The sound of a seventeen-year-old boy slamming his shoulder at the door and breaking out of the storage room was what Jonathan heard to his left. His eyes went wide as he saw the blurry flash of ebony hair and hearing the sprint of small, light feet booming all the way to Jonathan, who ended up in the main living room with his little search around the area. He felt Sam catching him by his legs, and with the surprising force, Jonathan was knocked down with a wheeze falling out of his lips; the gun in his hand was stolen with a trick none other than the love of his life was famous for, and the nozzle was pointed right at Jonathan’s face; the wild electric blue shining in the irises of the eyes above him.

 

“ _Fucker_.” Sam’s voiced dipped into a malice Jonathan didn’t know could ever slip out of his son’s voice, “ _before I shoot the living lights out of you, where the Hell did you take my father._ ”

 

Jonathan knew that look. Heck, he  _resented_  that look. The look of a hatred only men like he should only feel, now passed onto a male merely in his early teens. The father could only gulp and level his breathing before his voice dipped into the authority only he possessed. “Samuel,” he tried to keep his voice from rising, “lower the damned gun. Not everyone has the balls like your Ma.” The father watched as the electric blue in Sam’s eyes died as a gasp was torn out as Sam scattered away from Jonathan, dropping the gun nearly instantaneously when the familiar tone of his father shot through his system like a Taser.

 

The tears that grew abundant but didn’t escape. Immediately, he scooted forward to grab at Sam’s arms, only the wordless sentences telling Sam it was alright, no one was there to harm him anymore. Broken arms gripped his shirt tighter than ever as his response, and the single gash on his face was pulled when his son refused to let the shirt go. “Sam, please.” Jonathan said, begging his son to stop with just his tone, “there’s no one here to hurt you.” He said it was a promise in his words.

 

Jonathan and Ryan had found Sam abandoned on the latter’s doorstep with a letter attached, saying somewhere along these lines:  _whoever lives in this wonderful and warm house… you must know that I cannot let my son live in a world of poverty like I did and still do until this very day. Please raise him to be a boy of a life that he deserves. I still love him, but I know that he must live in a world much better than mine. Please, take care of him._ It haunted the just barely past the fifteen-years-old duo because Ryan had only started living alone at the time. Parents halfway across the world, he had no one but himself, the elders of the gang, Jonathan, Luke and Evan to turn to.

 

But…

 

He had been the closest to Jonathan, and thus, the two bonded and raised Sam despite their really inappropriate age. After three years came along Hope, the only girl of the family. On a job, Ryan found her at the site, alone, and barely a year old. Out of the blue, really, her eyes matched Ryan’s and so did her hair colour. There was no blood relation, as the tests proved, but the pair did feel some sort of… unnatural connection, like how they did with Sam. And working so hard to protect the two, Ryan had dedicated most of his time to raising the two whilst Jonathan took care of his other business. The former losing his presence in the workplace, and nearly causing a tantrum, but saved himself by going to work one day, but leaving after a few hours.

 

He wasn’t fit for the job, he knew, but really amongst Jonathan and Ryan, the latter  _was_ better at the whole… thing and Jonathan was shit at it. Ryan could cook, multi-task, and other shit that Jonathan could not even do—not even in a million years. Ryan learnt that the hard way when instead of frying an egg, Jonathan cooked the pan.

 

See? Jonathan was _not_ the househusband type.

 

“You,” he breathed as if the air in his lungs had been taken, “Dad, I am so sorry.” His words were soft like innocence was stolen. “I am so—I couldn’t do  _anything_. Not even help Ma in the slightest. They were too… too insane for— _shit_ _,” exasperation left his lips; his eyes clouded with a fog, “I couldn’t_ _fucking_ _move my body. Like as if. Like as if they had the power to—I couldn’t dare to move. I wanted to. I needed to. But... but they were all. It happened too fast. Men came in, one of them called Tyler. Then Scott. They were all. Even Bryce... no one could stop them. They knew everything was still. They knew when to strike. They took—they took—”_

 

A bomb landed.

 

“Who did you say came into this place?”

 

The lights in blue eyes dropped, now holding his son in a very loose hug as the pang of iron was still there. His view dodging past his son—

 

“No.” Sam cut in, drawing Jonathan’s attention, “you can’t. You can’t move from this spot. Please, Dad.”

 

“Samuel.” His voice was on the edge, “what the  _Hell_ happened whilst I was gone.”

 

“Dad.  _Please._ ”

 

 He ignored the plead and he stood, taking his son’s hand into his own to pull him up from his growing stupor and stubbornness; footsteps swallowed, and he kept walking, aiming for the one room Ryan promised so much love would stay within. He aimed for the room, the first one to his left, just near the bathroom where the ghostly sounds of giggling rumbled; the faint image of their daughter running away from the soapy grips of Ryan’s hands as she refused to take a bath; she was only barely past two years and five months of age at the time—Sam being nearly five at the time.

 

_Hope! Come back!_

_No! I don’t wanna go shower! I wanna play!_

_Look, I’ll play with you–I promise not to go work today!_

The ghostly pitter-patters stopped and the girl with sea-green eyes spun on her heels to look over at Ryan,  _you promise?_

_Of course, I promise. I will make my little Princess happy by playing with her today._ The wonderful smile was etched into Jonathan’s brain for all the years that would come.  _But you have to shower first whilst I do the laundry—okay?_

 

The jasmine smell of the shampoo both Ryan and Hope used filled his senses as he edged closer and closer to the room. He stopped in front of the door, feeling Sam shake in fear by his side. What happened behind this door that made Sam, the toughest seventeen-year-old boy known shake with fear that could bring down a mountain. The curiosity rising, he pulled the door open with the twist of the knob—

 

With her hand tied to the bed’s foot, a girl only twelve years of age sat in the right corner of the room. Near-blond hair, mirroring his lover’s own, dipped in a crimson Jonathan never wanted to see on a child. He left Sam to stay in the corner, knowing the smell was too much for his son, before edging closer and closer. He spotted Ryan’s phone by his side, halfway into the room; he bent down, grabbed it and shoved it into his pocket where it was safe prior to continuing—hesitating only for a moment. He dropped to the level of which the… the…  _his daughter_  was at— _no. Please. Do not do this to me. Do not let this be fucking true._

 

“Hope?” Voice shaky as he called out.

 

No response. Not even from Sam.

 

A gulp. “Darling?”

 

Again—not even Sam.

 

“Sweetheart?”

 

It was Ryan’s endearment.

 

Not even to that did she wake.

 

He pushed her fringe to the side, to reveal the nasty cut on her cheek to match Sam’s own—the sudden flash of red was what he saw engraved on the floor by her side. Little by little, he leant to the side to take in the words and when the whole bloody sentence came to life, the words by his daughter’s side had shrieked to a point he could no longer hear, and the glow into his irises flashed to reveal the horrible set of electric blue eyes. There absolutely was no scream in the whole fucking  _universe_  that could relieve the supreme resentment and malice growing in his heart.

 

“ _This is what fucking happened when I was fucking gone_!?”

 

 **This is where y’all fuckers at, huh?**  
**But guess what, my dear Jonny booooooy.**  
 **Guess who took your little Ohmie – it’s me! Wildcat, ya bitch!**


	2. Cap. I : Adaptation

**XX.XI.MMXVII**

The knife was gleaming so coldly under the light of the street. The rain poured in thunderous claps, gnawing at the cement, scratching as his shoes. Calloused fingers twirled the weapon with ease, now his steps being echoed down the roofless corridor.

 

At the far South of the city, his bloodied reign rained, and terror screamed. Blue eyes were similar but held a certain darkness in them—it shone no light. At the end stood a door, masked by the shadows that had the smell of copper and iron so deadly, he wasn’t affected—not even a single fraction could wind him up. Why would he be when he was the Master of the City?

 

The door that blocked him from his prey was driven open by a single twist of the knob and he stopped at the doorway, then saw the sight he was desperate to  _snap_.

 

The once, and still strong sea-green pair of eyes snapped their view towards him but then made so weak by the bloodshot that filled, caused by tears that still fell. Wrists bloodied from the chains, linking him from corner to corner, his legs left bare and his shirt ripped open, exposing the thousands of bruises littered over his torso.

 

Brown hair melted in the reds, glued to his forehead, a nasty snarl came in despite the torment he was given in just a few hours of capture. The hate that the incarcerator caused had filled the room in seconds; the smell of copper rising but not enough to drive the captor to sanity. Ignoring the shouts to stay away—to not move any closer, he walked towards the male—inch by inch before rushing, arm extended to grab and pull at the only clothing that protected the captive, driving him up the wall and pinning him against it; the groan of pain was heard when he did so, forcing his knee onto a grotesque bruise near his groin formed not so long ago.

 

“My, my,” his voice rung as he tittered darkly; the glint in his eyes burnt. “You still have a lot of fight in you. And how long had it been?”

 

His voice was becoming annoying.

 

“A week?”

 

His words starting thundering—maybe his ears were dying on him.

 

“Maybe more?”

 

He could no longer know how long it had been now.

 

Without hesitation, the feral growl left his already broken lips, jaw clenched harder as the captive stared down at his captor; the sea-green eyes flashing wildly, “two weeks ago you  _broke_ my 17-year-old son.” Now,  _that_ was the bitterness the captor wanted to witness with his own eyes. “You  _tortured_ my 12-year-old daughter. You  _left_ that image for Delirious to see! How can I  _not_  have the fight left in me, Tyler!?” The last note bounced off the prison-looking room, only the light that poured through the bars two metres higher than both males stood had been the source of their sight. “Every,” on this word, the captive growled again and attempted to get the knee off him, but only drove it onto his groin; he repressed the mo— _groan_ that wanted to fall out of his teeth before continuing, “—thing that you do will be paid for, Tyler. I promise you that!”

 

Tyler chuckled so darkly, it brought the hair on the back of the captive’s neck to a stand, and that smile had grown into a sneer so insane, the blues in his eyes flashed the same bright blue that the captive had fallen in love with in another person. “ _that_  is what I want to happen, dear Ryan.” Pulling out the knife he held, he tore the chain that held Ryan’s dominant hand detained with one swoop and threw him across the floor, satisfied with the sound that skin against cement made when he skidded to the wall to his left, and landed against the wall with a clamorous grunt.

 

15 metres in length spread per wall, caging both males in a darkness one loved and the other hated. The room was large enough to toss his prey around like the rag doll he was; tongue slipping out to lick his bottom lip in a desire only the insane would show. The taste of blood rose as he smelt the iron escaping his prey’s lips, the bones nearly shattering at the force. “I want the world to know what I did to Jonathan’s prized possessions,” Tyler confessed, folding the sleeves to his elbows as he stalked closer, “and then taking the North and East with me!”

 

When close enough, he took Ryan’s arm in his hold and threw him yet again, ignoring the plead to stop that fell, and ignoring the way in which his prey’s arms was nearly pulled out of the just-healed shoulder socket. “You know I would do fucking anything to bring my time back from the dead, Ryan. You know I would do anything for  _him_. You know I would harm your kids for  _his_  sake.”

 

The tears not stopping, Ryan did try to get himself up, but his dominant arm was no longer working. A dozen times, he counted. A dozen times, ever since he was taken from their home, had Ryan been thrown around like a plaything. Cuts and bruises wrangled his once empty, tanned skin. Being fucking married to a Mafia leader, Ryan knew he could never be subdued. But… but— _no_ , couldn’t show his weak side. Not then, not ever.

 

Using his left hand, he pushed himself and ready to lash out with the remaining energy he had in his reserves but was forced back onto the ground by a hand pushing his head down and flat onto the cement once again; the cuts already stinging like acid. He couldn’t remember the last time Tyler had gone this insane. This… Boss was renowned for his avoidance of children, and women—unless both were actually spies or pawns in disguise. But  _children._ The ugliest thing would have to be that Tyler used to be Jonathan’s brother-in-arms. They ruled nearly three-quarters of the city, bringing their terror only onto those who they hated. Only to have that burn under hours.

 

Ryan didn’t know the story, having to be absent on that night to take care of Sam, who was only eight-years-old, and Jonathan had never shared that anecdote with precision, but Ryan did know that Tyler had gone against Jonathan’s command to stay. Only silence was what he heard when his thoughts receded for the moment, and his flicked his eyes up to glance at Tyler, who only glanced down and refused to say anything.

 

“Do you remember that day when I lost everything?”

 

 _Don’t make me relive that day—please._ Ryan fought to plead but said nothing to keep his tongue safe.

“Remind yourself if you haven’t.” His tone harsh as the ground beneath them both, “we’re going to have a nice long chat about it.”

 

Tyler, or rather, Wildcat, was ambushed as a retaliation of when he had ambushed their enemy and decimated their men, two years after and during his own defending position, forcing Jonathan and co. to return from their mission, and save him. Tyler knew it was his own mistake—having led them to an incomplete trap, and instead of saving himself, he tossed Jonathan out of frame. Something happened during Tyler’s capture, Ryan knew, and this was seen when Tyler was brought back and had attacked Evan, almost killing him in the process. Jonathan had no choice but to throw him out for a while, knowing he couldn’t deal with people so broken that their sanity might as well have been cut off from the world.

 

However, Ryan didn’t think that was when Tyler had  _really_ changed. Now, Tyler had attacked Evan whilst being drugged—Ryan easily fixed that problem and Tyler was absolutely fine. But both Tyler and Ryan had been ambushed two years after. This was where he  _believed_ , and with every inch of his bones, he truly  _believed_ Tyler’s… demise could’ve been because of… of… him not being able to save Craig that one fucking day.

 

That was what Tyler was asking—forcing—him to remember.

 

Now, you see, Craig was the one that Tyler was seeing. Craig was just a civilian, just like how Ryan was for a moment. The two started dating, yes, and then (almost typically) it escalated. Being engaged, Ryan knew just how much over-protection Craig had to face. Now, it was the same for Ryan, Craig had a choice to either remain the civilian or join. He chose the latter, and the most utterly humorous code was given: MiniLadd, and mind you, he  _was_ short (but then again, he was taller than Ryan).

 

When he moved in—which was not long after meeting Tyler and falling in love with him, Craig instantly took over the technology side of things, being the only thing, he actually wanted to do in the workplace. He was found to rarely hold a gun, knowing that Tyler was the type to follow him around with one.

 

The 6th of November 2014 was their downfall. Dependence was too much that day. Being him and a father of two, he didn’t hold a gun himself when they went out to the park two years ago. And taking Sam along, they unconsciously made themselves extra vulnerable. But how could any of them even suspect an attack at noon, when the sun is shining, and dozens of people are out on the streets? He heard the gunshot; loud and crisp, causing both of them to snap around and find the source. He saw him keeping Sam behind his frame, he kept his eyes wide open for anyone, but of course, the light was too much for his dark-preferred vision—he very much knew that weakness.

 

Then the next thing he heard was the shot to his leg. Clean, through and through. Caused him to stagger, but caught himself, trying to not push his entire weight on the son, who was kept close. Then another gunshot. Now this time, it was ugly. Time slowed, both of them noticed, and the lights in their eyes had flashed as the bullet made contact and ripped through one’s chest. He didn’t scream when the bullet made the impact, but he did catch him just before he could reach the ground. The groan that tore through was enough for Sam to grab his parent’s phone and call the one emergency number: Jonathan. The fourteen-years-old boy kept his focus on hurrying his other parent instead of watching Ryan collapsing onto the ground, keeping the almost-dying in his grasp.

_“Craig!”_ Ryan had cried out, keeping his hand pressed upon the gunshot wound. But it was… it was hard. Ryan recognised the sound of the gun, and he did want to do something… but… what had been shot at him was a bullet from a fucking .50 BMG. The shot went straight through, and Ryan couldn’t pinpoint just by how much the bullet must have grazed a lung—or the heart.  _“Come on, please—stay with me!”_

_“It hurts, though…”_ was what Ryan heard from all the racket,  _“like… a bitch.”_ Craig wheezed, trying to hold on to that single chord of life and try to dry tear-filled sea-green eyes hovering above him, _“aside from that—Ryan,”_ he chuckled painfully _,_ catching Ryan’s attention,  _“a guy… like you… with tears in your eyes… that will surely give me nightmares for years… please don’t give me that.”_ Despite losing colour in his vision, he refused to get all serious—and it was very typical of him, _“G- God… if Tyler fucking sees me like this.”_ Attempting a laugh, he spluttered out crimson, chest jittering.

_“Craig!”_ Ryan cried out his name once again, pressing his hands onto the wound to try and at least stop the bleeding, _“you have to not fucking move. Please. The bullet went through and through_ —” he gulped down the pack of air that rushed into his throat and did not tear his sight away from his one friend as he called out again, _“Sam, pass me the phone. Quickly!”_ Receiving the phone from his son, he pressed it against his ear, and said with a rush he just noticed, _“I’m sorry, Jon, but I have to call Tyler—”_

_“Are you hurt!?”_

_“No, no. I’m fine—shot in the leg, but it’s not serious. What’s serious is Craig. I’m losing him the more I talk to you and the more you lounge around. He’s been shot by a BMG. Just get here under five minutes.”_ He didn’t mean to be press his words, but the adrenaline and tears made him do so, and he ended the call promptly before dialling Tyler’s number, hands shaking as the sobs wrecked. The phone was answered promptly, and he didn’t even allow Tyler to say a ‘hello’ _._

_“Ty, Craig’s been shot. We were ambushed.”_

_“What the fuck did you say!?”_ Tyler had shouted, voice rattling out of the receiver,  _“did you get shot, too?”_

_“Leg’s down.”_ He explained; nice and simple, _“Can’t move it—don’t tell Jon.”_ Ryan said further with little detail _,_ _“we were ambushed by a sniper. About ten storeys up. You gotta keep Craig awake—just until Jon gets here.”_

_“Understood. Pass me over—I ain’t losing that fucker to a damned sniper.”_

Ryan did pass the phone over to him, but Craig only lets Tyler talk for a minute or two before ending the call despite the latter pleading to stay in touch.

 

He didn’t want Tyler to have his way with it all—he just wanted to have Ryan by his side.

 

No one else.

 

His best friend was enough.

 

His hands were shaking against the hand upon his chest, Craig’s breath hot as Ryan tried to still the bleeding; his vision danced, but Ryan stayed affixed in his sights. No wonder Jonathan had fallen in love with Ryan the first moment he saw him: the sea-green eyes held a life so pure and warm, it made him smile.  _“Come on… Ry,”_ Craig tried again, feeling the other tremble as he tried to keep the taller male with him _, “don’t make me…”_ a breath of air, _“cry my fucking eyes out—not for these last moments of mine, Ohm.”_

_“Damn you_ ,  _Mini.”_  Ryan said, but there was no venom in his words, _“you’re staying right here. With me.”_

Only a chuckle escaped his lips despite it being near inevitable—but no. He had to last long enough for Ryan. For the gang. For Tyler. Once hearing Tyler’s voice, though, he did manage to keep awake whilst Ryan waited for the transport Sam asked for prior to the call for Tyler. Once at the apartment, Ryan did try to at least close the two ends of the wound. But… before Tyler and Jonathan could have even make it back—

 

Another shaky breath, Craig watched Ryan patch up his own wound, mesmerised by how Ryan hadn’t succumbed to the tire the lack of blood was wrecking him with, watching him closely as his eyes still showed the abundance of tears that still did not fall. He reached out, fingers grazing his arm—only seconds for him to react as grasp onto his fingers that went cold few minutes ago.

 

He didn’t allow him to continue—Craig wanted to hear his voice.

 

It wasn’t Tyler’s, he knew, but it was enough for him.

 

Craig didn’t have the strength to speak, but he  _did_  have the strength to at least tell Ryan it was all going to be fine without any words. He saw the sea-green eyes look upon him with a tinge of pain, knowing the action he opted was the only movement he could do. Ryan’s apartment was not a hospital, and Craig didn’t blame him. It was his fault anyway, telling him that it would all be fine and that they wouldn’t be ambushed in any sort of matter.

 

 _“Ma…”_ Was Hope’s voice that sang from the corridor—how much Craig had loved to hear the girl’s voice; how much he would give to hear her laugh again was too much.

_“Not now, Hope.”_ Sam’s husky voice followed,  _“Ma’s trying to help Craig.”_

Light grey eyes met sea-green as they cast themselves over to the kids, watching them disappear into Sam’s room before it fell onto the former once again—a taut smile ascended to his lips,  _“Craig,”_ thementioned male managed a hum as a response to his name, _“I—I know you're tired, so… so, go to sleep.”_

He drew in a breath, grasping onto the tanned fingers tighter,  _“I… I want to…”_  he breathed, eyes falling close but his conscious still with him,  _“but… but I don’t want… to wake to a world… without you.”_  His eyes snapped open again and Craig moved his view towards Ryan once more, the sea washing over him when the eyes opened,  _“the kids, Jon… or Tyler—I can’t leave him… alone.”_

His lungs were burning, but he didn’t say anything. Craig couldn’t have Ryan worry about it, nor could he have Ryan being ambushed again if he were to send Craig to the hospital. Just thinking about what would happen to Jonathan if that were to happen brought a pang of guilt to his chest, knowing Jonathan would lose all sanity he had left.  _“You know…”_  Craig started to speak again, fingers  _still_  holding Ryan’s own, _“…I remember when I first met you with Jonathan… you… were so worried that I didn’t like you because of what you became.”_

 

_“You need to stop speaking—”_

 

 _“I… found that very stupid, Ry,”_  his chuckle stuttered,  _”you would still be my friend—but, the big thing here is that I ended up falling in love with everyone. Luke and Evan included. But… I never did expect to fall in love with the biggest idiot in the group, also known as Tyler. I mean… how could someone… as terrible as him… I love him so… so… much.”_

 

 _“We all love you, too.”_  Ryan added, voice dropped to a murmur but loud enough for him to hear crystal clear,  _“Tyler especially.”_ He paused, and Craig noticed his eyes dropping to a close, succumbing to the tire,  _“he… he would do anything for you, Craig. Anything and everything. You give him the word, and he will do it with no hesitation. You cannot leave a man like that alone. I don’t know much of a threat he could be.”_

 

His lungs continued to wane, his vision waltzing as Craig removed his eyes from Ryan. He couldn’t take it. Not without crying himself—Ryan’s sea-green eyes were overwhelmed by the storm notwithstanding the fatigue mounting in his eyes.  _“I… I know. He’s a dangerous man. Ry. I can’t even promise you… that… you’re safe around him. Even I… feel the pressure.”_ Craig gulped before continuing,  _“a—anyway, you know… he promised… to do… so much… and here I am… dying… bleeding… t—thank goodness he isn’t here… but_ ** _you’re_** _here. I didn’t… want this. I didn’t want anyone… to be near me when… I’m… going. It hurts too… too much to have someone… by my side. I mean, I’m… not trying to sound… rude… I am… grateful that you’re here… with me…”_  His lungs could only draw one last breath and he took it as a chance. A chance he did not dare miss. He took too many words out of his lungs, he noticed and also wondered why Ryan hadn’t cut into his words to stop him from wasting his own breath.

 

He took one last look, and it was full of regret: Ryan had finally submitted himself to the world of rain, to the world of darkness—the blood he lost was enough for Craig as a reminder that not even the strongest could avoid the tracks. Collapsed against the sofa he laid upon, Craig moved his hand from Ryan’s own to his hair, messing with the locks as the unfinished stitches were brought into his view. “ _Sometimes,”_ he started once again, but knew Ryan was too deep in the void to hear his words,  _“I_ hate _Jonathan. For… for dragging you… into the mess… and that… is the same for Tyler… you and I, we can’t avoid it… but we used to be… civilians.”_

 

A pause for Craig to catch his breath,  _“working here… and there. For money. For university. I wished… that we both would’ve… never met either of them… but we ended up doing so… you have it worse—having grown up in the world… without you knowing.”_  his vision now cloudy, Craig’s chest shook as his own tears fell,  _“now… now we love them to a point… with no return. You have Sam, and now… now you’ve got Hope to take… care of.”_

 

He stopped moving his fingers in Ryan’s locks entirely and cranked his head. He was looking out and onto the world; the lights blurry as he stared across and his vision stretched so far, Craig couldn’t even pull it back. The smallest of smiles made it onto his lips as the familiar screeches of tires sounded 11 floors below both Craig and Ryan came into the former’s ears. “ _We should have_ _run away together. I really… wish we could’ve seen the world.”_

 

But then, only what seemed hours later but actual seconds. He snapped awake, scanning the area as the instinct of Jonathan and Tyler arriving in less than a minute on the rise. His unfinished patch of stitches caused his breath to hitch and him to stumble unceremoniously, but him to catch himself with ease. He blinked, trying to bring the goddamn world into focus. He pushed himself up with his good leg, groaning loudly in pain when his dominant leg started rocking. He managed to push himself into a stand and looked around before his heart shrivelled. The area was covered in blood—just like how it was before he lost his consciousness, half wet and half dry; some were splatters onto all the walls in the form of handprints.

 

But there was one… one area that had the most; its redness splattering around one spot, like as if there was a specific target. He turned around, wanting to push it out of the way before his chest heaved—he couldn’t avoid it. He simply could not. The… the specific target was a man, who could've been standing at about 183cm—a tad bit taller than he was. His hair was of the typical quiff, and his glasses left scattered on the floor. His jaw structure was well-defined as were his clavicles and shoulders. A broad chest, tightly covered with a black shirt. His jeans were covered in the blood of both his own and his; and his shoes, the same. He lowered himself and pushed away the bile rising in his throat—his hand now locked onto his mouth and his palm faced outwards as he tried to hold back whatever sound that wanted to escape.

 

He staggered away, backing against nothing but air as he recognised just how much of a mistake he had made when he decided to succumb to his wounds. His vision turning into clouded glasses, his chest convulsed, and his breath stuttered. The rushed footsteps from Jonathan had his ears perked from when he snapped his head around; the tears growing abundant as the view of mirroring sky-blue eyes watching his own sea-green get buried under a wave.

 

His lover rushed over to where he was standing; his strong arms enveloped him so tightly, he couldn’t withhold his darn tears anymore.  _“I’m so sorry, Tyler.”_  He sobbed, eyes still filled with tears, and hands bloody—shaking as he refused to look at both of them in the eyes, especially at Tyler.  _“The… the bullet… it tore through. I—I couldn’t do anything here since there’s both an entrance wound_ and _an exit wound. I… I_ told _you I wasn’t enough. But you both wouldn’t listen. Craig needed more than me—he… he’s gone. I am… I am so sorry.”_  Breaking into the sob, you tried to hold once again, you were still being enveloped in Jonathan’s hold, his own body shaking.

 

Face frozen, and the gun was dropped to the floor. Tyler made a move towards the main living room where both you and Jonathan refused to move anywhere else, the start of the skyline as the utmost ironic backdrop. His feet were dragged, and blue met red as he stalked closer and closer to the man stuck on the sofa; the smell of blood hitting home. Glass lens shattered, skin paled, and eyes were closed. Lungs drew no breath; his fingers were as cold as snow when Tyler took them in his own grasp. The tears no one had seen in so long as sprung to life, and the ugliest of screams erupted, causing Ryan to flinch and bury himself even further into Jonathan’s hold.

 

 _“I fucking trusted you, Ryan!”_  Was his scream towards said male, his eyes burning with a rage you solely deserved,  _“Craig’s fucking dead because of you! Are you happy to see me like this, huh!? Is this how it is!?”_

 

He fumbled for a response, knowing that Tyler did trust him, and he absolutely had no intention of watching Tyler fall into a madness you wished he hadn’t witnessed happen to a man like Tyler. He wanted to tell him that Craig couldn’t be gone by the fact the bleeding stopped minutes, if not hours ago then—he wanted the words to slip, to break free… but the words jumbled in his throat as the sobbing did not stop.

 

 _“Wildcat!”_  Jonathan snapped in his stead, sea-blue eyes washing over Tyler’s own electric blue as the codename slipped off his tongue like as if it was an everyday thing,  _“Ryan could not do anything else! You cannot just put all the blame on him! He tried his best to make Craig stay, but you_ know _the fucking power of the BMG, not even Ryan could do anything about that!”_

 

 _“But I_ trusted _Ryan, Jonathan.”_  a fist was made by his side when his eyes fell to a close; jaw started to clench, and teeth started to grit before the single scream:  _“I TRUSTED HIM TO KEEP CRAIG HERE!”_ The outburst brought the sob devouring Ryan inside-out; he had no idea what to do, or what to say—he knew, he knew, he knew, he knew, he unequivocallyknew that his death was all because of him.  _“WAS THAT TOO MUCH TO ASK, RYAN—TO KEEP HIM_ ALIVE _!?”_

 

“WAS  _IT_  TOO MUCH TO  _BLOODY_  FUCKING ASK!?”

 

Ryan flinched his; body jerking underneath the hold Tyler had him in. Opening his eyes—eye—again, he saw the dying blue in the other’s irises, deepening into the navy as the shadow loomed over. He failed so many people that day—even himself, and with another breath draw his eyes—or rather, eye—still brought in the view of Tyler, who hadn’t moved from the spot; knowing the other had escaped into his thoughts. Ryan knew he couldn’t wipe the blood off his skin, no matter how hard he tried. He drew a ragged breath, similar to when Craig nearly lost his own breathing and tried again. “Ty,” he had wheezed under his breath, ears pricking as Tyler used the moniker Craig would use every single damned day of the year. “I tried everything I could—”

 

“But it wasn’t enough!”

 

Ryan hissed as his skin burnt when Tyler pressed him further onto the floor.

 

“I lost Craig to a man we still haven’t found until today. And I lost my dignity, pride and my friends because of your one mistake!” Tyler shrieked as he tossed Ryan yet again, this time back to where he was; skin hitting the shackles with a resounding smack, “every time I hear the slightest mention of any type of ambush, I lose my mind—and every time I see you with… with Jonathan and your kids—it makes me want to wring your neck!” Tyler stormed over to Ryan, who hadn’t budged except for an inch to prop himself on his good arm, “he was the only person who could save me from his world, Ryan. Jonathan has escaped, so why can’t I.” There was a pause hanging in the air, and Ryan hated it—what was going on in Tyler’s mind?

 

“Ty—”

 

“Maybe I should just bask in the insanity  _you_ dragged me into.”

 

With the sudden remembrance of what happened just an hour ago when Tyler had said the exact same thing—no, no,  _no._ His eyes widened as Tyler gazed at him with a knowing look. He couldn’t take it—not like that, not again, “don’t even think about it, Tyler.” His eyes frantic, he clambered away from Tyler but managed to just press himself back into the wall that made the much taller male pushed him against, locking him right then and there.

 

With a thud, he pushed Ryan against the wall with little energy—his hold tough, “hm,” Tyler hummed, smirked cocked as he stared into Ryan’s undamaged eye and he was utterly amused that the other didn’t pass out from all the thinking he did, “don’t think about what? Tormenting you?” With that, Tyler collected a laugh so loud, it brought a bullet to Ryan’s chest as he knew what that one sound meant, “you think I’m done with you just by hurting Sam, or just by painting Hope with a colour we both love to see wrapping around the people that  _we_ hated, suffocating them to death? You think I am done…” he stooped so low, his hot breath stabbing at the shell of Ryan’s ear, “after claiming  _you_  as  _mine_ … right in  _front_  of him?”

 

His world flashed a white he never thought he would  _ever_ experience again.

 

**~~**

 

**VI.XI.MMXVII**

 

_“Mama!” Light pitter-patters of feet came running into the kitchen as the food was being prepared for dinner and the pots and pans being washed, a lightweight barrelling into a pair of legs from behind. “When’s Daddy coming back home?” Her voice rung in such a crisp melody, it didn’t fail to release a chuckle out of his chords._

_Ryan stopped washing and turned the tap off, spinning around but keeping himself in his daughter’s hold. “Probably in the morn, Hope. Dad hasn’t told me anything.” Ryan chuckled as he felt his daughter loosen her hold on his legs; dropping to Hope’s level of height to hug her. “He has to chase bad people away from us—but he promises to get you that teddy bear you wanted, okay?”_

_Nearly blonde hair shook as she nodded her head twice, a cute smile adorning her features, “as long as Daddy comes home.” She snaked herself out of Ryan’s hold to grab at the teddy laying on the dining table—the one Jonathan gave her last month—hugging it close to her chest as she spun on her heels to great her brother._

_Damn, she had never failed to impress Ryan with her sensitive hearing. “Big brother!” Her voice loud as Sam had been caught tip-toeing to her—hoping to at least scare her (Ryan had given him the ‘Boy-I-ain’t-a-mother-but-I-will-get-as-angry-as-one-if-you-dare-scare-your-little-sister’ look, and caused Sam to actually hesitate and not scare his little sister), “can we go outside?”_

_The 17-year-old (avoiding the look being sent from Ryan) shook his head with a sigh of defeat before the childish grin settled on his lips, “not now, Hope.” Sam moved to her, ruffling her hair with a child’s grin, “I wanna talk to Ma for a bit—is that okay with you?” He wasn’t expecting it, but Sam had gotten a little nod from Hope before watching the little girl of the family run out of the kitchen with the teddy fly in her hold._

_Ryan cocked his head to the side when he looked at the much shorter boy, leaning against the counter as he watched Sam stalk over with a look he very much recognised, “for the last time, Samuel,” he said in response to the expression on his son’s face; arms crossed over his chest, “we are_ not _having the talk.”_

_“We are going to talk about it sooner or later, Ma!” Sam countered, hissing out his words, “Dad’s already given me the green light—I am old enough to join!”_

_“You’re seventeen!”_

_“_ You _already were a part of all this when_ you _were seventeen, Ma!” Sam rebutted._

_“Just because_ I _was already in this mess when I was seventeen, it does not mean that you have to do what we do. I am trying to protect you, Samuel. It is a nasty world your father and I live in, and it is a world you_ cannot _escape from. We don’t want to drag you into our mess.” Ryan said—confessed. With the curse of insanity, Jonathan was found to slowly lose his sanity if Ryan was not around—it was the same for Luke. When Evan had gone missing when they were all teens, Luke had gone insane to the point Ryan believed he couldn’t be salvaged from senselessness. He couldn’t afford to have his son go through_ any _of it. None. Not even Jonathan—he doubted the other had even said yes, and Sam had lied to him, but that really wasn’t what Ryan wanted to really scold Sam for, it was for his utter stubbornness. But then again, that trait was passed down from Jonathan. “I will teach you the basics if that is what you want,” Ryan said, “but you will not do what we do. Do you understand?”_

_“But—”_

_“Samuel.”_

_“Yes, Ma. I… do understand.”_

_Ryan sighed, and his shoulder dipped as the air was expelled. He leaned forward so that he was matching Sam’s height, “I love you too much to lose you, Sam. You have to know that.”_

_Said child nodded his head once, “I do, Ma. I just… I really want to help.” Sam added_ _as his voice dipped in a whisper as he made a grab for Ryan’s fingers, holding them tightly, “I… I remember watching Dad drag you back home from missions and whatnot, and you’ve always come back home with wounds, and I end up helping Dad patch those scars. It… it really hurts; you know? To come across the same colour over and over again.”_

_Red was an awful colour, Ryan could agree 100% without hesitation. It reminded him too much. He remembered the very same moments Sam described, and he remembered the clothes he’d set ablaze to rid any evidence of any killings—not that it did matter, but they had children in their home. It was a stimulant, really. It set Ryan on tracks of blurry memories, and he wasn’t even sure that if any of them were even true. He saw his best friend’s face going slack, but nothing else._

_And it was… was so_ weird _._

_A whole day’s worth of memories was wiped out, Ryan noticed recently._

_“Anyway, Ma.” Sam said, knowing it was best to steer away from the subject, “on the brighter side, it’s Hope’s birthday tomorrow. Is Dad coming back before?”_

_Ryan could only shrug, “Jon’s a busy man, Sam. I’m not even sure if he knows that if he can come back—but to be optimistic, yes, he will be coming back. He wouldn’t dare miss her birthday for the world.” With that ending on a light tone, Ryan took Sam’s wrist and led him to the living room where Hope was fiddling with her bear, leading him to sit down, “let me finish up quickly—did you do your homework?”_

_“Done the day I received them.”_

_“Good bo—”_

_If Ryan’s hearing wasn’t failing him, the sound of abseiling started behind him._

_“Ma?” Hope called out._

_She called out to Ryan, who had frozen at the sound the younger ones couldn’t hear. Windows faced his back, bringing the anxiety in him so much higher than he thought—the familiar sound of a knock with the most noticeable hammer hit the glass twice, causing Ryan to spin on his heels._

_His eyes met recognisable ones and he cussed instantaneously, “damn it!”_

_Not waiting for any other chances, he might have given the trespasser (who still was connected to a rope, thus connected to the helicopter—as so were a dozen other men), he whipped his attention to the eldest, “Sam,” he called, shouting out to the eldest,_ _“get Hope back inside!”_

_As he watched his son rush over to grab Hope, Ryan took hold of the gun that Jonathan left under the table—damn it. It was nothing more than a handgun! Typical of Jonathan to leave something only he was trained enough to use. Backing up against the door to the room whilst the kids made a break for it, he watched as a fully armoured man wrap his finger tighter around a sledgehammer similar to the one his partner has used before. Was it him? The blond hair was enough to send recognition through his blood._

_The windows smashed one by one as the man moved from Ryan’s right to left—that was the only weakness of Evan’s building structure. Jonathan pleaded for extra protection for Ryan’s sake, but it was still weak to the sledgehammer Luke had customised for Ryan’s partner: 407—if Ryan wasn’t mistaken (he couldn’t tell by the mask). Ryan remained in his spot; his back turned to the one girl and boy, who had dragged themselves into a room Ryan had demanded them to stay within._

_Both hands on the weapon and the nozzle right on target, sea-green eyes watched as masked men vaulted into the apartment, guns at their side but not aiming at him; they all stared at him as he stared at them._

_Unmoving._

_But the one Ryan recognised despite the mask, had flinched when he saw the masked man up close. “What the fuck is this!?” He screamed, realising the masks were not of Jonathan’s own gang—he snapped his aim to one of their head’s, nozzle staring straight down an eye. “I asked a fucking question!”_

_“Please.” Said one, sliding past the man with the hammer to stand in front, the smirk adorning—the blue eyes haunting Ryan ever since, “no need to be so Bossy with my crew,” the pig-mask slipped off with just one swift movement and it caught Ryan’s breath on a hitch, “Ryan.”_

_His jaw clenched in such anger, Ryan snapped, “you pig!” He fired a warning shot right in between Tyler and the sledge-user’s opposing ears as his back still faced the room, reminding himself to protect the two rather than himself._ _“You get out of here and leave the kids the fuck alone at once before I blow a hole in that massive bolt of a brain—either of yours!” Moving the gun, the nozzle was aimed straight at the middle Tyler’s forehead._ _“Or even worse,” another snarl,_ _“Delirious coming up here and killing you himself.”_

_The low chuckle didn’t faze Ryan, knowing the other would opt to make such a sound. He stood his ground and watched the other scan him._ _“Look, Ryan.” He said, tilting his head to the side with an amused look on his face—one that Ryan wanted to rip off so very badly, “I don’t want to waste any more precious time. I am here to get what I want. And I will get what I want, yes?”_

_Ryan shook his head at that, eyes not being removed from the trespasser._

_“Oh? Saying no to something I haven’t even provided details for? How rude. I didn’t know you would actually treat your guests like that. But then again, you_ are _married to Jonathan, I wouldn’t be surprised if you started smelling like him.” Ryan noted the pause without letting himself get thrown off by the fact that Tyler even remembered Jonathan’s name, and he despised hearing it roll off his tongue,_ _“but I have to say that you not shooting me yet is rather sad, knowing that you would be mowed down to the floor by a dozen magazines.”_

_And that was why Ryan didn’t shoot the fucker. If Ryan had collapsed in the spot he had planted himself in, the stray bullets would go flying into the room, hitting the kids and killing them. Only unlucky—or lucky—shots would keep them alive._ _“Tyler.” His voice steady as a contrast to his shaking hands, “Craig—” he twitched, the empty hole in his memory straining against the name, “—he wouldn’t want you doing this.”_

_“Bah!” Tyler huffed, waving said male away as if he was insignificant,_ _“he’s dead—no one can stop me, Ryan.” His eyes were harsh, but the sneer was ugly. “He’s lost to me, now. You do remember that. And Jonathan told me, by the way, that you went into a coma after his death… give or take a fortnight of you in the damned hospital—you lost your memory of what really happened that day. How bullshit is that?”_

_A pause and Tyler moved further to the front, eyes still staring at Ryan, “you don’t deserve to forget what the Hell happened to Craig. You absolutely have no right to forget that you’re at fault.” Folding his sleeve to reveal the scars left on his skin, Tyler cocked his head to the side and then a frown took over the sneer, “don’t even think about doing something foolish, dear Ryan. It’s a dozen against one.” He shrugged his shoulder, eyes scattering to the guns he had on his side, “like I have said, I will take what I want.”_

_“Not what you need?” Ryan asked, glare settling. He knew. He knew Tyler was there to grab him. Not Delirious. Not the kids. Just him. Craig was taken by Death, and Tyler chose him to punish—but what happened? Jonathan told him that Craig had died, but he didn’t tell him what_ exactly _happened._

_“Not exactly—well, if you think that I_ need _to punish you for your crimes, then well, yeah.” Tyler had clicked his tongue then, “thing is if I hadn’t told Jonathan to go. You wouldn’t have felt how I did—but I figured later on that… that I need so much more to endure Craig’s death. And that, I chose what Jonathan had always been fighting for: his family.”_

_The shriek tore Ryan’s eardrum, but didn’t stop him from spinning around, finding that his 12-year-old child had been—_

 

 _“Tyler!” Ryan screamed, running_ _straight for the said male. He jumped and pushed him over and onto his spine; the loud thud breaking the atmosphere. Drawing a fist back, he slammed it into Tyler’s jaw, smashing the bone. The punch had severed the silence, and the men around him were caught off guard when the corners of the room had gone to life; trained from young, Ryan’s own men had melted in with the darkness—enough to call them assassins, not those of a mafia group—they all leapt to grab their own to fight, but some had escaped, causing them to follow; they couldn’t allow their Boss’ partner to be killed by a darn pawn._

_Alongside Ryan’s growling, came more from the rooftops of the other buildings at his seventeen o-clock, and they chased after Tyler’s men as the_ _Boss_ _stayed pinned._ _“Do you really think I will let you do what you please!?” Drawing yet another punch, he aimed it for his nose to at least wake the fucker up but had his fist caught. He drew a groan when his fist was being squeezed—he had injured that had a week ago, and it only barely healed that day. “I don’t remember a fucking thing that happened on that day! If you want to punish me for letting my brain wipe his face from my memory, then hurt_ **_me_ ** _!” He paused, but his fist still locked onto his target, “you_ **_know_ ** **** _Craig wouldn’t want you doing this to the darn kids, Tyler!”_

_Heaving a dark chuckle, Ryan flinched—his opening made clear; when the time for dominance was revealed, Tyler spun them around, himself up top and Ryan beneath him. His eyes were wild, screaming out the same blue as Jonathan’s but much brighter._ _“Utter his name again,” the voice rumbled, “and I will hurt you, Ryan.”_

_“Excuse me? I have a right to say his name, Tyler!” Ryan screamed once again, trying to block out the sounds of his son’s own,_ _“Craig was my friend. A best friend, at that!_ Everyone _was at fault that day!” He split every nonsense he could, “Craig thought it was clear enough to not have me with a gun, Jonathan left me on my own, I thought it was fine to bring my son, Luke was in Jakarta, Evan went down because of that stupid flu, and you weren’t around!” He wanted to get him off, but his wrists were wrung in a grasp so hard, he thought he could lose his hands in seconds._ _“Tyler! Get the fuck off!”_

_The wild eyes didn’t dissipate, “oh, so you_ do _remember.” He pressed his wrists harder into the floor, growling, “and you just instantly put the blame on me? Now that is just damn cruel.” What? But Ryan just rambled! Ryan aimed for a comeback, but the_ _assailant_ _turned his head around to make himself face the open windows, ignoring Ryan’s shaking underneath his weight, “get the girl.”_

_A gasp tore through, and the frantic shake as he tried to peel out of the bigger man’s hold was what Tyler saw when his eyes returned onto Ryan,_ _“no, Tyler—anything but her.” The Bunny pleaded,_ _“don’t you dare fucking touch her. It’s me you’re after—” he was cut off by a heaving of air when a man climbed back in. It wasn’t his own man, but Tyler’s. “Please, Tyler. You have to stop—if it was my fault, then tell me it was my_ _fault! Jonathan would only tell me the basics—nothing more!” He pushed himself up from the edge and dragged another body with him. And that one… Ryan knew. Blond hair, lean frame… Ryan found his eyesight blurring._

_Bryce was a man whom Ryan picked up months after his loss of Craig. Bryce was only a bartender when they met—a bartender who was being abused. Even Bryce didn’t know why he was being abused, knowing he was the best at his job, but what he did know was that Ryan came into the picture at the right time, severing the abuser's arm with a mere dagger. Nothing more. Ryan persuaded him to join, and he did, but he still kept his name. Bryce McQuaid was his name, and he was already known after his first job. He killed five with no backup and only being a part of Jonathan’s team for days. What also made him famous was his fluidity. In his movements, he moved with such a grace and skill, even Luke had awed him for._

_Blond hair and a lean frame were enough to make their opponents think he wasn’t up for a fight—but he was always up for a fight. Very much like Evan, he favoured the frontal assault and his_ _load-out_ _usually consisted of close ranged weapons. He formed a bond with Ryan so quick, Bryce would lose his life for the male, even if his love wouldn’t be returned in a way Bryce wished it would, knowing that Ryan had two kids and a very scary_ _Boss_ _to take care of—he didn’t mind though. One thing enemies knew him for was the never-ending supply of armour. Ceramic plates could stop bullets far better than the average bulletproof vests—he still hadn’t said where in the whole world did he get the armour, but Jonathan was forever grateful for them._

_“Then maybe I should aim for Jonathan’s head for not telling you the truth?” Tyler dragged his nails into Ryan’s skin, earning himself a painful yelp, “_ you _killed Craig. You left him open to attacks. You didn’t keep him alive. YOU LEFT HIM FOR DEAD!” He paused and reverted his sights back to his man and demanded, “NOW GET THE GIRL.”_

**_Stop, stop, stop!_ **

****

_Ryan squeezed his eyes tightly and pushed the tears back into his skull. “McQuaid, wake up!” Sea-green eyes shouted, trying to get the blond to wake up; trying to get him to save Hope before she could get hurt._   _“Please, get up! He’s going to Hope!” He shouted again, eyes moving from Bryce to the man edging closer to the room; the girl’s sobs wrecking Ryan’s chest. “Stay away from her!” He begged; the desperation shrieking out of his vocal chords._

_“You think I will let you have your ways!?” Tyler snapped, blue eyes went so bright, it was blinding Ryan._

_Ryan couldn’t believe himself—he was letting Tyler into his head; he gritted his teeth, “fuck off!” The sudden outburst threw Tyler off guard and was thrown off and to the side where the blond laid. Bryce (who just woken up from the punch to his face) grabbed Tyler, kept him on his feet and in his spot so Ryan could run after Tyler’s goon. Ryan took his chance and his arms grabbed at the male aiming for his daughter, and he spun the other on his heels, throwing a fist at his neck—blood splattered, and the familiar eyes widened. He wrecked a gasp out of his lung._ _“S—Scott!?” But he didn’t let that fly over him. He tossed Scott away and stood guard of the door where he still heard his daughter’s sobbing behind; he gritted his teeth, blood and vision searing in anger, “you dare leave Jonathan for the likes of him!?” His body pressed against the door, there was no way in Hell would he let anyone near the damn door._

_Then came again the screaming._   _“As if you would notice!” Scott’s reply caused his stomach to churn,_ _“you, out of all people, would know just how much Craig meant to me—to Tyler. You caused his death, Ryan. You caused a lot of deaths over the past few years, including Marcel’s—Brian’s, too!” Not even bothering to wait for Ryan’s response, Scott grabbed Ryan and shoved him into the opposite wall and flung out the dagger Ryan recognised the man named Marcel had used on a regular basis, then drove it into his scapula, digging into the bone and muscle— it flew straight through, pinning him to the wall opposite to the door he needed to protect._ _“I wish that Tyler can kill off Jonathan so that I can finally breathe. But before that, don’t you think it is wise to kill off you before ridding the City of its…_ _‘protector’?”_

_“Scott.” Another wheeze,_ _“please. I beg you. Don’t hurt her—”_

_“Do you know how many fucking people you have hurt with your mistakes?” Scott pressed, pushing away the fact that Ryan was breaking down right in front of his face—they were_ partners _, and there was Scott, blaming the other for his ‘crimes’._

_“You piece of fuck! Let my dad go!”_

_Again, Ryan lost his attention. Face adorned with tiny cuts and bruises, Sam’s face took over his blurred sight—the ugly large gash on his face matching Ryan’s went into a haze, and he failed to feel himself being peeled away from the door and tossed back to the man living room; time slowing down the moment he saw his son—he was pinned there again by a pair of hands he wished could just not touch him. His son being withheld by a man he did not know; and Bryce had fallen to the floor, his own eyes wide as he watched. He had his head turned over his shoulder to see his daughter being grabbed by Scott, her arm turning a nasty red by the grip._

_“Let go of her!” He shrieked._

 

_“L- let go of Mama!” He heard Hope scream simultaneously, trying her best to tear herself away even if her beg was for Ryan._

_Tyler chuckled, licking at his canines as amusement tore at his lips. “Sorry, but no can do, sweetheart.”_

_The look on Hope's face was enough to make Ryan's heart go into an oblivion he never knew had existed. He knew he had failed her when he saw that expression on her face. Her own sea-green eyes directed to where Ryan was pinned._

_“Sorry, sweetheart. He’s mine for today.” The pause was deadly enough to wreck a cry out of Hope and when Tyler spoke, she lost it: “have fun with her, Scott.”_

_“No!” Ryan cried out, turning violent against Tyler’s hold, “please, don't!”_

_The flurry of movements was enough to let Ryan scream again. Sam was shoved into the storage room with a force Ryan thought would have hurt him more than he already was, and Hope was taken into the room he wanted to be the one where his children were safely in; both doors were locked in seconds—_

_Bryce knew it was a mistake to move too late, but he still had to take the chance—he attacked the man who locked Sam in with a bullet flying into his limb, causing Tyler to drag Ryan away to avoid the fight._ _Bryce was unaware the pair had moved away, his tunnel vision only showing him the man in front of him. He spun on his heels as he had the man’s neck in his grasp; his eyes going wide, “Ryan!” The blond shouted after hitting the other on the head with the butt of the gun he stole._

_He spun on his heels but had been caught by strong arms wrapped around his torso, restricting him from running after Ryan._ _His position was reversed, and he was stupid to have lowered his concentration, “you!” He growled, noticing Tyler was so very close to the edge of the room where the windows were blown open. Beneath was a fall of 11-storeys—_ _“let go of him, right now!” He yelled again; he grabbed his secondary weapon: a purple Swiss-army knife and sliced it down the length of his captor’s torso (or whatever area he could reach) to get himself out of the hold he was locked within._

_Ryan felt his spine being pressed against Tyler’s torso whilst his own and his abdomen had arms snaked around. He lost all movement in his dominant arm, the dagger was lost, but the gaping hole was still there. The image of red brought the panic to life again—the image of Craig’s lifeless body was on the sofa when Ryan remembered he had passed out due to the blood loss. The memory rushed into his brain without the medications Jonathan begged him to take though he didn’t want to, saying they tasted horrible without knowing the real use for them. He’d forgotten to take them for the day, and this what he got in return? A memory of him finding Craig lying still on the sofa with his blood on Ryan’s hands?_

_“Too late, McQuaid.” The much taller man purred, his chin planted onto Ryan’s crown, “seems like your Princess finally remembered what the Hell happened to Craig.” The next sound was a snort, and it broke Ryan away from his memory, “and didn’t I tell you that he’s mine for today?”_   _With a single movement, Ryan felt his neck being overcome by a set of teeth that were too sharp for any human—only Tyler. Some sort of hot fluid (was that blood?) running down the length of his neck. The lap of a tongue gave him a shiver, but nothing more as the words just died at the back of his throat. “You know…” The whisper was deadly as he ignored Bryce’s plead,_ _“I_ cannot _wait to hurt you.”_

_“You fuck!” Bryce screamed, unable to move with the sight of neon blue eyes staring right down his gut, “let him go!”_

_“Let me have my_ fucking _sweet revenge, Bryce.” With the single sentence,_ _Tyler pulled away and when he did, the flash of blue arrived in his view; forcing his vision to move towards it, he cocked a nasty sneer towards the light and noticed it was_ ** _the_** _camera; what did Jonathan call it on one random day? The Black Eye? Oh._ ** _Oh._** _Now he bloody knew who the fuck would be watching the feed, and with that, he said something so loud and clear, it made Ryan tremble and Bryce to collapse onto his knees with a look so devastated, it nearly killed Ryan,_ _“have a fucking pleasant night, Jonny.” With heels over the edge, Tyler tipped himself and Ryan over the edge; the last look from the latter was—_

_“RYAN!”_

 

**~~**

 

**XX.XI.MMXVII**

The interactive table was blown out by a silver dagger that did not belong to the one who used it; the dagger was being driven from its mark towards the man—an angry deep line drawn. The jaggy, hot breathing was plenty for Evan to know that Jonathan was  _furious_ and would not hesitate to bring down all the trepidation in his heart onto the whole universe—the former would gladly allow him to do so.

 

The Boss gritted his teeth, breathing a sharp inhale before: “what a fucker!” The blue-eyed man screamed, pulling the dagger out and spinning on his feet to toss the dagger and letting it whiz past one's ear; its destination ended onto yet another computer screen. His breathing rumbled in his chest and he mentally collapsed—suddenly, he felt limbs around his frame, and those very same arms were trying to keep him standing couldn’t hold him. “This is what I’m watching now!?” He snarled; the rage unable to be put on a leash. “Two weeks after Ryan was taken from me!?”

 

“Jon, for the love your sanity.” His best friend beseeched as he felt Jon's nails scratching at his arms; his skin ripping as Jonathan was slowly slipping away, “don’t do this to yourself.”

 

Warm blue eyes danced to cold electricity; Luka could no longer recognise his own friend. “How can I not!?” The man had acted as if it was too late to save him, like as if there was no hope for him any longer; “I found Hope on the edge of death, I found Sam nearly losing it and I  _lost_  Ryan to a man who used to be our brother in arms—all of it happening two weeks ago! And only now I am watching the feed!” The actuality sent a pang. “Did you even see just how Tyler was behaving or even how he was treating him!? Huh, Luke!? Did you not see!?”

 

“I fucking saw it, Jon! I saw What Tyler did, and I, too, want to hurt him as badly as you do!”

 

The sobs were harsh cries of incoherence; knuckles turning a horrid white from gripping the edge of the table in a hold too tight. Luke and Evan could only work out the words of a plead to keep Ryan alive and safe. To bring him back. But none of them knew where he was. None of them knew how far Tyler had taken him. In the corner, Evan moved and muffled the sounds of light whimpers with his arms that snaked around the teen’s body. He wasn’t at Sam’s titan height (him being six feet and three inches), but he did try to placate the younger male. “It’s going to be okay,” Evan promised with a twinge in his face as the boy in his grasp had shivered; he whispered so softly, only Sam could hear him at that moment, “Ryan’s going to be okay.” He did try to keep his voice level, but with a  _17_ -year-old kid relying on mere words… he knew it wasn’t enough, nonetheless, he did try. “We’ll save him—your father’s going to do everything he can to help him. We promise you. You know we do.”

 

Peeling his eyes away from Sam and Evan, Luke returned his gaze onto Jonathan, “look,” Luke filled in again, voice dropping in volume, “I  _know_  it’s been two weeks ever since we all last saw Ryan, but you have to wake the fuck up!” Okay, he did remember there was a child—young teen—in the room, but heck, he was losing Jonathan. “Tyler didn’t take either Bryce, Hope or Sam. He took Ryan—I don’t know how to explain, but don’t you have at least a part of him here!? Come on, Jon, you’re a lot stronger than this.” He paused, “and besides, Ryan knows how to bloody take care of himself until he can find a shit tonne of ways to get himself out of the hands of that… that bastard.”

 

“But  _he’s_ not here.”

 

Even if no words were leaving Evan’s lips to be alongside Luke in the argument, the former stole eye contact with the latter, who just didn’t say anything else to counter the statement Jonathan pulled out of his throat. On a side note, Jonathan made no move to add more to his words, nor did he do anything for that matter. He was a mess, a darkness without any source of light to keep him sane. He knew how Tyler felt then. How much it hurt to have his love one stolen. Jonathan… somewhere within him, knew it was going to be difficult to get Ryan back, but he didn’t care if he lost a limb… lost an eye, or even lost his life to get Ryan back. The kids were better off with him anyway, and Ryan had the capabilities of a Mafia Boss to take care of the city. Maybe if he could turn himself in as an exchange for Ryan—

 

“Don’t even dare think about that.”

 

Shit, was Jonathan thinking aloud?

 

“And don’t give me that look, either—you  _were_  thinking out loud.” Was what Luke said from Jonathan’s silence, “look, Ryan would kill you himself if he was here. I would, too, but what’s keeping Tyler in his cage is you. You have the majority of the city under your control, you  _know_ this city like the back of your hand. The streets, the alleys—the map of the area are  _your_ veins and arteries, not Tyler’s.” A pause and he threw another look towards Evan where his eyes rested upon the silver band securing his ring finger, “I don’t know how it feels to lose someone I love, so I cannot help you in that… but I  _can_ help you to get Ryan back. He’s a friend I’ve known for so long, and I cannot lose him to a bastard who has lost his mind.” Another pause as he brought Jonathan close to his chest, feeling the sobs wrecking, “you need to catch yourself before I lose you, Jon. Please… I don’t want to lose you either. Nor would Evan. You have kids to attend to.”

 

_Hope._

Jonathan smacked the gasp right out of his lungs as he snapped out of Luke’s hold; his own tunnel vision working, he stormed out of the debriefing room and into the door at the left corner of the room, thus making at his right; he opened the door and bolted down the corridor to yet another door at the end of it—he slammed that door open and saw Bryce turning his head around. Once bringing the view of that man into his vision, he wheezed, “she…” He faltered at the sight of wires and whatnot caging the 12-year-old and trapped her to the bed. Nearly-blonde, wavy hair stuck to her skin as her eyebrows stayed furrowed, her eyes closed as if she was having a nightmare. Not bothering to finish his sentence, he limped towards the bed at the end of the room and stood by her side—the silence so strong, it stunk. “Is she… alright?” He asked after the silence.

 

“She’s fine,” said Bryce, voice light and soft, “nothing major—or  _too_  major. Her wrists still need to heal from her trying to escape them, and her arms full of bruises, nothing more. Her legs are fine, just that her feet have cuts, probably caused by the splinters in the floorboards. Scott—” he knew Jonathan had gone through the feed taken from the camera, “—didn’t hurt her as much as I thought he would. I think Ryan had gotten through his head before disappearing. Look, Jon… Hope’s fine. But I think she has to see Ryan as soon as you can get him back,” he continued, now looking towards Jonathan with a plead in his eyes, “he misses him so much—she called out to him a few dozen times in the past… however long it has been.”

 

“I…” Jonathan tried to speak, but the tears wouldn’t allow him, “I… I want to save him so badly. I want to hold him again—but I don’t even know where he is. I can no longer predict where Tyler is going with him. He… the last time he saw Hope was when she was dragged into the room, and the last time he saw Sam was when the…those cuts and bruises took over his face—Ryan’s been having these nightmares of Tyler and Craig ever since that day—I feel like I’m losing him.” With that said, he mindlessly rubbed the ring on his finger, biting his lip which caused Bryce to notice his actions, “I… I’m failing him as we speak—I can’t.”

 

“You can, and you will.” Bryce said, standing up; eyes flickering over to Luke as he rested his arm on Evan’s shoulders, “Hope’s blood pressure has dropped ever since you started talking, and Sam,” he pointed towards to door to show Jonathan, “has stopped crying. You might be failing Ryan, but for him, you are not. You’ve been protecting him for  _years_  now. Sam finally reached 17 years, and Hope’s now 12. All these years were enough for Ryan. These years were enough for you. You have eyes all over the city. And you may not have realised, but we still have Brock down in the South. He’s still one of ours, Jon. He’s Evan’s good friend, remember?”

 

Jonathan lifted his head and saw Evan by the door, dark brown eyes matching his gaze. Luke shuffled nervously by the Asian’s side; Sam’s eyes were still glazed. The sudden gleam of his lover behind his son flickered; the famous grey bandana with the single Omega sign covering the bottom half of his face—but Jonathan could still see the smile. But when the image disappeared, their Boss sighed as he wiped at his eyes before facing Sam and Evan, arms out to tell Sam to— “come here.”

 

Sam didn’t hesitate and sprinted towards Jonathan, injured arms flinging around his father’s neck. But he didn’t cry. He didn’t whimper or even shake. He was firm, only sniffing back a sound—but he was calm.  _You are so much like Ryan._ Jonathan thought to himself as he stood, carrying Sam and planting him by Hope’s side. Though adopted, he was facing a mirror image of himself, black hair and blue eyes with a hint of green in those irises. He raked his fingers through his son’s hair and he held Sam’s hand, and then Hope’s hand; “I—I know it has been a fortnight ever since we lost Ma, but I—I  _promise_  to save him… in any way I can.”

 

“Thank you… Dad.”

 

Jonathan could breathe again. The crisp melody of her voice made his heart squeeze in a way it did when they first found her. In all coincidence, her sea-green eyes carried the very same life Ryan’s had. His ears perked.  _Hope._ Was the voice that rung in his ears as he watched the mesmerising sea-green eyes facing his own sea and the smile that mirrored his lover’s own.

 

_Are you sure that’s you want to name her, Ry?_

_Of course. Just look at that adorable smile. She perks brighter than you do._

_I will take that as an insult, ya hear? An insult, Ohmwrecker!_

The remainder of that single moment stayed bright in mind.  _I cannot believe you would fall in love with a guy like me and make me the one who protects the kids._  He thought, keeping Hope’s hand in his grasp and Sam in his hug. _I cannot even do a good enough job like you, and yet you still believe in me—but I guess you have your own reasons. But… let me remind you that I am a screw-up—I have failed so many times in my life, now. Do forgive me._  He ended his thought with a plead, and all he heard was a silence Jonathan knew he was going to have in return, but he didn’t mind. He had his son and daughter by his side, and that was what was going to drive him into a world he could get lost within. But he also had Bryce, Evan and Luke in there to catch him if he were to fall.

 

_You’re not a screw-up, Jon. We all make mistakes, even the most near-to-perfect person we both know of. All I want you to do is to promise me that you will not let yourself get eaten by the hate Tyler is forcing you into. You have to protect the kids with everything you have, and I will do everything I can, too—they do not deserve the beatings that we old men deserve._

The voice made Jonathan pull away from the younger ones, eyes frantic to find the source of the voice—but he knew he was just imagining it. It sounded so much like Ryan, he thought he was going insane… and he really was. If he didn’t find Ryan soon, he would really lose all his humanity. But before Luke could realise something was wrong (and being the detailed bastard, Jonathan hated him for that), he coughed once to clear his throat and said, “I want security doubled at all fronts—get Valkyrie to install every single camera she has, and I need more eyes at the East and West in case of any… occurrences that might happen under our very noses. I also want EMP grenades to be made thrice as fast, and I don’t care how. We need as many as we need—Tyler relies on technology too much.”

 

“Understood.” Was the word that came from somewhere on Jonathan’s right.

 

Despite being shocked by an injured man saying what they said, he turned his attention towards another. “Evan, you’re going to take care of Sam and Hope because Ryan trusts you with them. That means the three of us,” at that moment, his eyes flitted over from Evan to Luke, then to Bryce, “are going to find Ryan, even if it is the last thing we do.” Jonathan paused to cup at Sam’s cheeks, eyes burying into his son’s own, “I want you to promise me that you will never leave Hope alone. And you will  _not_ follow us after Ma, do you understand?”

 

_Nope. I think Sam’s so much more like you, Jon. He’s pretty reckless._

_But… he was at_ your _doorstep._

_That does not mean anything._

_You left all the jobs to be done by me to take care of him!_

_Gah, he watches your sparring videos!_

 

There was a slight hesitation, but the 17-year-old knew it was safer to follow his father’s command, “y- yeah, Dad…” a drew in a breath, and then the look of pure determination appeared on his face, making the gash look less and less prominent than it did before, “I won’t leave Hope alone—ever.”

 

 _So much like me, huh._ Jonathan withheld the chuckle despite the hate in his chest.

**~~**

“Scott.” Brock whispered to the said male by his side when he moved to the sink to wash the red off his hands, “come on.” He wasn't aiming for it, but his tone changed to a certain warmth that made Scott pause for a second. “You  _know_ you cannot let Tyler do all this to Ryan. You  _know_ it’s so wrong, and you know Craig’s watching all of this.”  _Please don't let the monster take over your sanity._

 

With a snap, Scott turned around to face Brock from his moment of cleaning Ryan's re-opened wound, “he left him in the open and for him to be killed, Brock!” Scott had fought back with a hiss that left through the mere spaces between his teeth; the anger washing over like a flood as he threatened to cut off Brock’s air supply if the guy didn’t stop talking. “He  _let_  Craig get fucking  _killed_! Do you now understand that, Brock!?”

 

Brock felt the irritation in his blood rise along with the feeling of… of whatever emotion it was, fighting to scratch at Scott’s face. “But you  _know_ it wasn’t his fault!” His voice was loud enough to bounce off the walls and into the shadows.

 

The room was the infirmary. Lined with bandages, alcohol and gauzes were a familiar sight Brock was accustomed to when he was back in the north of the city. Being a medic as well, Brock had joined Tyler in that rank and had to tend to Ryan for the nth time again for the third week. No matter how hard he tried, Ryan’s arms were still blotched with bruises and wounds, and his legs were at their worst. His face was left alone—thank goodness—but his eyes held nothing but tears. He knew Ryan wasn’t even paying attention anymore, and Scott noticed that, too. Brock had a protective hand planted on the only spot unaffected by Tyler’s beatings, fingers gripping the limb softly enough to not hurt but tight enough for security.

 

Now you see, Brock was a man who had been close to Evan and was still close to him. Expert in sub-machine guns, and tracking skills—aside from being a medic—was Jonathan’s tracker. Equipment allowing him to track enemies by means of prints, blood, smell; it didn’t matter for Brock. He could find people in an instant. Using the tech on the battlefield, he was the perfect attacker, giving the others a chance for a pre-fire to lure their opponents out in the open.

 

The same height as Luke and built better than him, stood Brock; dark-brown hair and eyes to match that colour with a tanned finish. Codename: Moosnuckel or just Moo, though what their rivals called him Jackal.

 

Out of all things, they went for a wild dog.

 

But that didn’t stop him from not tarnishing his name of being the tracker of the gang. Once, an opposing gang would remove all tracks of their kidnapped to prevent Brock or anyone for that matter, track them down and eventually kill them off—but Brock was cunning. Using his own sweet words, he managed to sneak into the top ranks and kill them all off by alerting Jonathan and company. Until this day, Brock would always leave tracks for Jonathan to find Tyler, but since Ryan had been dragged into the pits of mayhem, he had to stop.

 

For Ryan’s sake.

 

“Excuse me, Brock.” A small, dark chuckle threw Brock to a standstill, “if it weren’t for Ryan’s idea to go out and into open space, they wouldn’t get shot at!”

 

“That is the point!” Brock was so thankful for the infirmary being sound-proof, “ _they_ were shot at. Not Craig alone, but Ryan had almost lost his leg that day! And besides, they were shot with a darn BMG. Do you hear me? A. Darn. BMG. That's a sniper over a handgun  _if_  Ryan had taken a weapon along. But he did not because Craig told him not to worry about it!” Brock said as if trying to scream that Scott was being really narrow-minded to not have realised that, “do you really think, that even if Luke’s amazing gun skills, he could take out a sniper that stood storeys above the both them?”

 

“And may I say that Ryan had no clue as to where the guy was going to shoot at?” Scott wanted to say more, but Brock being Brock, didn’t allow him to say anything. “You know that this is the worst form of torment a body can withstand. You saw the looks on their faces when they lost Ryan to a monster like Tyler. His lower half in nothing but swollen and a bloodied mess, and I don’t even think I can clean him without him feeling tortured by Tyler himself. You have to stop Tyler before he loses him altogether. Please, Scott.”

 

Brock tried again, his hand grasping Ryan’s own, but with a pressure so light, Brock even believed it might break his bones again. “You can’t have Ryan go through it like this—he took care of Marcel until the end, did he not? Because I know he took care of Brian, too.” A pause, “he’s still alive, you know? I mean, both Marcel and Brian. They’re just still in the coma Ryan had unconsciously placed them under. He didn’t want Marcel to wake up with a nightmare in front of his eyes. But I am planning to wake him up sooner than expected because I know you miss him.”

 

“Fuck you, Brock.” His tone so harsh, it brought a nasty slash to the said male’s chest, “you’re lying. I know you very well are. Marcel is long dead, and you told me that he was gone to a point he cannot be saved anymore. Even Brian. You saw the footage. He was shot in the fucking clavicle. No one that we know of could survive with that wound, Brock. Not even Ryan. Not even the great Jonathan, Luke or Evan. We’re all pawns in the world of Ryan’s, going to end up dead sooner or later by his own hand whether or not he is aware of it.”

 

How could he even say that?

 

He was Ryan’s friend.

 

_Partner._

They fought side by side in missions, beheading the maddest of madmen throughout the whole city for  _years_. They trusted each other to a point that they could have been mistaken as a couple. They were yet another duo that could bring rage and fear with just a small flick of their finger. But who was he kidding? Scott was a man that when anger was his car’s auto-pilot, then he would gladly let his car drive on its own. This man, being called 407 out on the field, was a man known for his anger. He let it boil right down to the very depths of his blood and let it control him. His eyes flashing red as he attacked all of those deemed targets, he merely carried a sledgehammer to swing and really, smash his opponents into what he called ‘bloody sandwiches’. Well-built, but not that tall, Scott could be mistaken for someone like Evan, someone who would prefer hanging back and defending—but he hated that spot and yearned to be taking the spotlight, and every single time, he did do so without difficulty.

 

“We’re already pawns, even if we hate it.” Brock said, “Ryan is a pawn himself because we have higher ranking men—even Jonathan is a man being played with. You have to fucking remember that Ryan is not some sort of lucky charm and that we get saved every time he works his magic. Let me remind you that he  _can_ do miracles when he’s trying to save people. Let me remind you yet again that  _Marcel is alive_. And so is Brian. They were  _never_  gone.”

 

 

Reeling a snarl, a question—demand—shot through, “how the heck is that even possible, huh?” Scott growled to let Brock know that he was  _desperate_  to be informed on what the fuck what he was saying. He let his own glare be sent straight to Brock whilst he spoke. “Marcel was shot at the back of his head and the bullet escaped through his cheek.”

 

It was a wound no one could ever survive.

 

Not even the luckiest.

 

“He  _isn't_  dead, Scott.” Brock kept his cool instead of allowing himself to shout out profanities at the other. “You just didn’t see it in an angle that I did. The bullet  _grazed_  the  _side_ of his head. He has a scar to prove it, too.” He made clear, still trying his best to not bite the other’s head off from his neck. “You have the tendency to jump to conclusions—never waiting for more details. Do you not love Marcel? He loved you from the moon and back, and he would never give upon you—but you did? What fuck is with that?” The look he earned from the other was ugly. “Did Tyler really poison you—”

 

“Shut the fuck up, Brock.” A pause. “You know  _nothing_. You have Brian, don't you? A man who is alive—”

 

“But with scars!” Brock shrieked, “just like Marcel! No one makes it out without scars!” He had to breathe—he inhaled sharply and gave one more chance to clear it all. “Craig is alive.”

 

“ _What?”_

“He is.” Brock repeated as his eyes remained on Ryan’s broken self, “Ryan being Ryan, he managed to get him back the day Tyler went rogue. I realised from when he refused to bury Craig; he refused to let him go. From that moment, we all didn’t know why but when I saw the guy with my own eyes… I have a feeling Craig isn’t completely gone and that is because I sa—”

 

“But he had no right to shut Tyler off from knowing Craig was still alive!” Scott pressed yet again, “do you know how much suffering Ryan had caused? Tyler was not eating for weeks, he wasn’t responding to anything—much less a single hello, and he was constantly being lost in his own thoughts, so far down not even I could catch him!”

 

Brock wanted to punch him and moved to do it, but his hand was grabbed by another.

 

“ _Craig_.”

 

Neither man would ever think of finding themselves watching sea-green eyes flood the room. But... it was wrong.

 

 _So_ wrong.

 

There was no warmth.

 

There was nothing there to recognise the man; he had gone paler than pale—whiter than snow. Cheeks were shallow, and his breathing went so, too. The grip on Brock's hand wasn't strong like before where Ryan was the master of the BMG; his skin was cold as ice if not colder. His fingers went fragile, just like his eyes—yes, they were sea-green, but the colour was fading with every second that passed by.

 

“Ryan—”

 

“He’s still alive.” His eyes flickered from the empty ceiling to the men by his side; one face he was so happy to see, but the other… he was relieved to have seen despite the malice growing in his heart. There was something odd about the BMG user's voice—his tone? It seemed… it was covered with a faked... no. None could pinpoint the correct word, so they just let it pass, “I… managed to pull him back after Tyler stormed out. He didn’t say… anything, but just… he just watched me talking. The wound… it was… he wouldn’t say anything. I managed to close both sides…. but I knew he needed a hospital… so I took him there. They saved him. I wanted to tell Tyler, but Jonathan had cut all ties with him.”

 

Now having that off his chest, Ryan could speak without stopping for a breath; his lungs were on fire, “I brought Brock here to at least tell that to Tyler, but I guess the guy won’t listen to anyone now. I don’t blame him for that decision. I know Jonathan would have done the same thing if I had been the one who lost a life that day.” A pause; his throat was jarred as he gulped a handful of dry air, “Scott. Talk to Tyler,  _please_.” The beg nearly made the colour in his eyes disappear. “I want out of here.”

 

Should he let—?

 

“I need to see them.  _Please._ Just one last time.”

 

His chest blew to a million pieces. Scott still had his humanity. He still did, and he still did notice. He… yes, everything was wrong. But… Tyler… he had every right. He had lost Craig and still believed that he did. Craig was everything to him, and he lost him before they could even get married. It was a nightmare to watch Tyler succumb to the darkness.

 

But… he couldn’t lose him, either.

 

Tyler was a man he promised to take care of, not lose him to a force none of them to evade from. “I—” Scott wanted to let Hope and Sam not see her father, but Tyler… the man was already broken. Smashed to pieces unless Craig saved him. But there Ryan was—nearly broken. It wasn’t him that Tyler was aiming for—heck, Scott didn’t even know who in the world Tyler was aiming for now. He could only expect Jonathan, so—

 

“Scott… please.” Ryan wheezed out the plead from his chords, “not for me, and not for Jon. But for Sam and Hope. They’re everything to me.” Ryan continued to beg, pulling his hand away from Brock’s hold and to grasp at Scott’s. “I want to say goodbye, at least.” Another pause, “please, Scott. I’m not even going to Jonathan if you’re wondering. I just want to see the kids… that is it.”

 

“Does Jon know about Craig?” Scott asked, ignoring Ryan.

 

“No.” Brock breathed in Ryan’s stead, “he does not.”

 

“Then get out.” Scott said, still not looking at either Brock or Ryan—he didn’t realise, but he had already made it to the only door and held the knob in his hands; his head was turned so that he could look over his shoulder, “I will create some type of 15-minute-window, so go. But promise me you will not see Jon.”

 

It was a mistake Ryan had made, but he knew it was smart to  _not_ see Jonathan, and so he nodded and took a quick look at Brock, before looking towards Scott, “I promise.” He said, only regretting his promised straight after he had said it out loud.

 

With that, the door closed, and Brock went to work once Scott had disappeared. He grabbed fresh clothes and pulled them to cover Ryan’s bandages, slapping his arms and head through. It was all slow movements, but fast enough so both Brock and Ryan had enough time to leave. It would take a man minutes to find the perfect exits, but Brock being Brock, he knew the place like the back of his hand, and he clearly remembered one single exit only he and Scott knew—he grabbed at Ryan’s arm and secured it around his neck before cupping his other hand underneath Ryan’s knees. The action made Ryan whimper in his grip: a sound Brock didn’t want to hear, “I’m so sorry, Ry.” He whispered as he started to carry the said male along, “but we need to move at a pace Tyler can’t catch us by.”

 

 “I—I got it.” Ryan whinged with the feeling of numbness climb up his legs—he didn’t know he was  _that_ hurt.

 

The two raced down the hall, breaths panting for different reasons. The secret passage was underground, Brock remembered—just like how Jonathan’s hide-out had been like. Only five minutes had passed, far longer than Brock calculated, but that was only because Ryan made him stop several times, so he could at least remember he was in Brock’s arms and not Tyler’s.  _This is so fucking terrible._ Brock groaned to himself as he felt Ryan shiver by his side,  _if Tyler keeps this up—Ryan would lose himself far faster than Jonathan would. Gah, Jon would kill me._ The next five minutes was evading guards. Now some of them had grown to like Ryan (in a sense that they did not like how Tyler was treating the man), and let them pass, but some… didn’t.

 

Brock had to fight them, of course—but tried to not use his primary way of attack because Tyler had the knack of spotting who exactly had what fighting style. It took a while, but Brock noticed how his shirt was bunched in a fist, made too tightly for broken knuckles to endure. He realised just how much Ryan had been tortured the past fortnight, and he couldn’t do anything to stop Tyler—and now everything was up to Scott, how may be killed because of what Brock and Ryan are doing right then. But at least the former did tell Scott that Marcel’s alive. “Brock, please.” The beg was quiet, “it—it’s too much.”

 

“I am so sorry, Ryan.” His tone was genuine as he apologised once again, “I know it’s too much, but we’re almost there.”

 

The fear grew within Ryan, but he had to trust Brock. He wasn’t Tyler—he was his friend. He was trusted by Craig. There was nothing to worry about, but the image of a sneer was too much for Ryan at that point, having seen it too many times for him to count. He blinked harshly to keep the tears at the back of his eyes; just to have him see Hope and Sam, Brock didn’t stop for a breather—wait. There it was. The exit. A silver door with only two guards standing there. But, hold on. Ryan recognised those faces: Lui and Nogla.  _Oh, how much I missed the both of you._

 

Familiar dark brown eyes shot over to the two men that were limping down the length of the hall, “Brock?” Ryan heard Lui calling out, lowering his gun as he saw the male run towards the exit with Ryan still in his hold, “who is that you’re holding—wait… is that Ryan!?”

 

“Shit,” Nogla exasperated, bringing a broken figure into his view, “what the heck happened?”

 

Because they were always positioned underground, they never knew what was going up on the surface. They knew Tyler had kidnapped someone, but they didn’t know that someone had been their former friend and former Boss’ boyfriend. When Ryan didn’t say anything, Brock filled in. “He did it again.” He had said, stopping by their sides, “a dozen times now.” The words caused Ryan to bury himself deeper in Brock’s hold—he was stripped of his pride and dignity with those words.

 

“Don’t tell me that Tyler did that to the point he’s…” a gulp, “he’s broken.”

 

 _I am already broken from the start._  Ryan wanted to say but forced himself to not speak.  _He spoilt the lives of Sam and Hope in less than a bloody hour, and he left it for Jon to see. Both through a feed and through seeing it with his own eyes. Now Jon’s going to go through much,_ much  _worse if I don’t get the fuck out of here._

 

“He can be saved,” Brock said in Ryan’s stead, not letting go of the way Ryan had gone almost limp in his arms, “he needs to see Sam and Hope, please don’t you dare stop hi—”

 

He wanted to say more, of course, but the growl had caught all of them in a prison so cold, their blood had gone to a rigid freeze in seconds.  _“What in the absolute fuck!?”_  Tyler’s voice rained down an anger everyone shivered at; even if Tyler was on the surface, his voice was loud enough to be heard in the underground passage:  _“where the fuck did they go, Scott!?”_

 

Lui was struck by shock—he hadn’t even heard Tyler  _that_ furious before and he wasn’t the one to let his curiosity expand; without hesitation from the moment he saw Ryan’s state, he opened the single door that led to the outside world, “go on,” he said, eyes dipped in a determination to  _escape_ , “we’ll be behind you.”

 

“You’ve got to be kidding me, Lui!” Nogla snarled, pulling Lui away from the exit and close to him as he dropped his voice so low, Lui could barely hear him, “you know how dangerous Tyler gets when he’s angry—and we only got the gist of it just a few shitting seconds ago!”

 

Lui pulled himself away without pause. “Can’t you bloody see!?” The growl made Ryan jerk in fear, his brain starting to mess with his system, “we’re already losing Ryan as we speak, Daithi!” Lui fought, already re-stealing his arm from Nogla’s hold, “I doubt Ryan will let Jon see him in that state. His top priorities are the kids; please don’t fucking tell me you won’t allow for him to do so.”

 

When Nogla didn’t say anything, Ryan’s heart plummeting so deep, he nearly lost hope. But once the man’s mouth opened, a sentence filled with bliss was sunrise to his ears: “we need out.”

 

Brock nodded and escaped into the night, not turning back—afraid to see if Tyler had caught their plan. He knew he ran for a good ten minutes when he realised that both Lui and Nogla were running after him. What he didn’t realise was that Ryan had disappeared from his grasp and ran on ahead as if he wasn’t even hurt, to begin with. When he did become aware, he noticed the way in which his shoulders started shaking, and the sob was going to wreck him if he didn’t release it. “Ryan!” He called out, voice firm though faltering, “don’t!”

 

Ryan disregarded Brock’s request and kept running. His feet pushed himself off the ground and his legs started sprinting away despite the pain growing in every single corner of his body. Ryan just kept running and his vision waltzed—after only a mere three blocks did he finally choke on that broken sob that he tried to hold and forced himself to stop.

 

_I am so sorry._

 

He lurched forward, and there was a deadly shriek dampening into his hand. His muscles burnt into a fire too hot for him to stand, his heart raced and screamed, and the rain started to pour once again that week. He fell to his knees and pounded his fists into the ground that stopped him from falling. Blaring droplets contacted the ground; the tears finally escaped. He felt warm hands on his shoulders, making him stand and leading him to the nearest shelter. He didn’t even take into account that he collapsed, letting gravity take over and friction to disappear. Those arms released his body, and he fell to his knees. His nails clawed at the cracked pavement, fingertips wounded again by the chipped edges. His fingers dug deep, blood now mixing in with the course of the rain.

 

 _Two weeks, Jon._ His mind screamed:  _you haven’t seen me for two weeks, and I am so stupid to have promised to not see you._

 

_I’m so stupid._


End file.
